A Honey 'Verse Study in Pink
by Amiyrasmom
Summary: Exactly what the title says cuz I'm very uninventive today. Couldn't think of a better title and I am very aware that this is a crappy summary but if you haven't seen the show then why are you reading Sherlock fanfiction? Rating may go up if Sherlock and John decide to have some fun but they haven't yet.
1. The Press Conference

**Disclaimer: So I was working the other day and found a Lestrade in the break room. I was overjoyed and immediately kidnapped him to have my wicked way with him. Then I woke up. Worst day of my life. Anyway, Sherlock and company are not mine and most likely never will be and unless I'm the unknown heiress to the BBC (I can pretty much guarantee that I am not, by the way) then I make no money from them either.**

**A/N: Dialogue heavily borrowed from 'A Study in Pink". I won't be updating this as frequently as the other stories I've written in the past. This is mostly because I now work eighty miles away from home and though I only have to drive there on Monday morning and back home on Thursday afternoon I have no internet where I'm staying during the week. Also my job is very busy and I don't have much time to write during the days.**

** Anyway, here is the first chapter of A Honey 'Verse Study in Pink. Let me know what you think.**

**The Press Conference**

The vultures circled around them. Squawking and squalling and bickering, making so much noise and fuss that they could barely think. Seated at a table in the front of the room a man with silver hair, a lined face, and eyes too old for his actual age and a woman, younger and yet just as weary, eyed the vultures with barely concealed disgust. The woman held up a hand for silence and the vultures settled reluctantly. She leaned forward towards the row of microphones set up on the table while the man rested his forearms on the table and linked his fingers together praying futilely for this stupid press conference to be over already.

"The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night on a building site in Greater London. Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide. We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson and James Phillimore. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now." The woman told them clearly and then sat back to watch the feeding frenzy. The man gave her a frown but couldn't do more in front of the press. He really hated it when she threw him to the wolves or vultures in this case. Damn journalists.

Immediately one of the vultures fought his way free of the others and half stood up calling out rather loudly to be heard over the others. "Detective Inspector how can suicides be linked?" His tone was slightly mocking and a frown adorned his face.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade took a breath and stared anywhere but at the vultures disguised as reporters. He wished he'd had more time to prepare but the Chief had sprung this on them ten minutes before the press arrived. "Well, they all took the same poison. Uh, they were all found in places they had no reason to be. None of them had shown any prior indications—"

"But you can't have serial suicides," the same reporter interrupted him his tone smug.

_Idiot,_ Greg's inner Sherlock scoffed. "Well, apparently you can," he said in a dry tone. He could feel Sally's suppressed giggle from beside him and hoped she at least kept her face expressionless. It would be a disaster if all these journalists reported that DI Lestrade and Detective Sergeant Donovan found the recent suicides amusing.

Perhaps sensing Greg's irritation with the first questioner another journalist spoke up quickly in a respectful tone. "These three people, there's nothing that links them?"

Greg made eye contact with the reporter, hoping to communicate his gratitude. "There's no link we've found yet, but we're looking for it. There has to be one." He tried to convince them and himself of this idea.

In a cacophony of noise every mobile phone in the room went off at once as everyone received a text message.

_Wrong!_

Sally sighed and Greg nearly groaned before stopping himself. Bloody Sherlock Holmes! They shared a frustrated look before turning their attention back to the confused crowd of journalists. They needed to do some damage control before things got out of hand.

"If you've all got texts, please ignore them," Sally tried to head the vultures off. It was too late however and they scented blood. Bloody Sherlock Holmes! Why? Sally whined to herself. Why did he have to do this?

The first reporter spoke up while holding his mobile. "It just says 'wrong'." His voice was both confused and smug. Greg really didn't like him.

"Yeah well, just ignore that," Sally said dismissively. Greg gave her a sidelong look but let her continue. She didn't really believe the vultures were going to ignore the message did she? "If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring this session to an end." The room filled with the mutters and moanings of the vultures who wanted an end to the mystery and wanted answers for the strange text.

The second reporter settled himself more firmly in his hard chair, determined to get enough information to write his story. "If they're suicides, what are you investigating?"

Greg gave the man a hard look and swallowed. He really hated it when reporters asked smart questions. "As I say, these-these suicides are clearly linked. Um, it's-it's an unusual situation. We've got our best people investigating." He knew there was going to be another mass text at that statement but he had to try to put the minds of the public at rest. No matter what Bloody Sherlock Holmes thought of the idea.

Sure enough the mobiles were going off almost before the last word was out of his mouth. Sally shot him a look that clearly asked if he was trying to wind the Freak up but he ignored it. He wasn't even though he'd known that would be the end result. Sherlock was so easy to wind up this way.

_Wrong!_

"Says 'wrong' again," one of the reporters called out. Greg felt like screaming that he already knew that at him but held himself in check. Sherlock was going to pay for this humiliation the next time he saw him.

"One more question," Sally called out almost desperately. She couldn't believe the Freak had derailed their press conference like this. Well, she could but still why did he always do this to them?

A new reporter, female this time, called out to them. "Is there any chance that these are murders? And if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

Greg closed his eyes briefly and prayed for patience. Every single bloody time! The press just loved their serial killers. "I know that you'd like writing about these, but these do appear to be suicides." Lord, he fervently hoped they weren't dealing with a serial killer; Sherlock would be unbearable. "We know the difference," he continued. "The, um…poison was clearly self-administered."

"Yes, but if they are murders," the female reporter cut him off. "How do people keep themselves safe?"

_Idiot!_ His inner Sherlock sneered. "Well, don't commit suicide," Greg told her. Ask a stupid question and get a stupid answer, he smirked to himself.

Sally rubbed the tip of her nose to cover her mouth. "Daily Mail," she whispered lowly.

_Oops, _the rational part of his brain gulped while the part influenced by Sherlock cackled in unrestrained glee.

"Obviously this is a frightening time for people," Greg tried to back track. "But all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be."

Greg and Sally both felt like banging their heads against the table as all the mobiles in the room went off again.

_Wrong!_

Greg's phone went off by itself and he sighed.

_You know where to find me._

_ -SH_

Rolling his eyes at his mobile and the man behind the text he flipped it closed and stuffed into his pocket. "Thank you," he told the reporters as he rose to his feet and left the room.

Sally caught up to him not four steps from the doorway. "You've got to stop him doing that," she told him heatedly. "He's making us look like idiots."

Greg kept walking and scratched at the back of his head. "If you can tell me how he does it, I'll stop him," he challenged her.

Sally stopped in her tracks and glared at Greg as he continued to walk away from her. "I'm telling Dr. John," she called after him; she didn't care if she sounded like a grade school tattletale. "He'll make the Freak stop." God, she hoped Dr. John made him stop. It was embarrassing.

Greg raised one hand over his head in a kind of wave. "Good luck with that Donovan, he thinks it's funny."

Sally resisted the urge to stamp her foot and swear. Dr. John would find his husband's antics funny.


	2. At St Bart's

**Disclaimer: Boots? Check. Umbrella? Check. Muffin Pan? Check. Yetis like muffins. Oh, sorry, didn't see you there. Well, I'm off on a journey to Mt. Olympus. You see I realized that I asked Santa and the Easter Bunny for Lestrade or Sherlock or John but I forgot to ask Eros, the god of love, how stupid was that? So I'm off to hunt him down and ask him. Enjoy the story and I'll keep you updated as to my progress. For now, they're still not mine and I make no money off of these stories.**

**A/N: Okay, here the story will diverge from the show. All of the major events will still happen but it now has a Honey 'Verse spin. Surprise pairing at the ending. Points if you can guess who the pairing is and I'm not telling until it comes out in the story. That will probably be at the end of the story so you'll have to wait for however long that takes. Still if you review and you have the pairing correct I might tell you that. Read on and enjoy!**

**At St. Bart's**

"Sherlock?" John questioned softly of his husband as they sat in the quiet confines of a cab on the way to St. Bart's for some experiment or other. "Why is Sgt. Sally texting me to 'make you stop it'? And stop what?"

Sherlock turned his attention from the view out the window of the cab to his befuddled husband. "I'm sure I have no idea, John," he said laconically.

John merely gave him a disbelieving look. "So this has nothing to do with the press conference about the suicides? Somehow I think you know exactly what has irritated Sgt. Sally to the point of whining to me about you."

Sherlock made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat before turning back to the window but John saw the faint smirk and sighed.

_What exactly did he do?_ John texted Sally.

_Texted all the journalists that we were wrong. Three times! Make him stop! We look like idiots!_

John manfully tried to hold back the snicker working its way up his throat but he couldn't quite help it. That was just too funny in a Sherlock kind of way. He could just hear Sgt. Sally's whiny, put-upon voice in his head. "Sometimes Sherlock, you can be very cruel."

Sherlock turned to him again and gave him a delighted smile. "I do try, my dear John," he tried to say in a serious voice but the mirth behind it shone through.

_Sorry, Sgt. Sally. I'll have a talk with him._

The pair was exiting the cab at St. Bart's before the reply came. John handed the cabbie the fare before he checked the message.

_I know you're laughing at me. Lestrade said you would. I don't really care just make him stop it!_

John snickered again. Sgt. Sally was in a fine fury. He limped up the steps to the front entrance of St. Bart's and then realized that his husband was nowhere to be found. Cursing long legged men he hurried towards the morgue.

By the time he caught up with his husband Molly was already showing him to the body. John thanked his lucky stars for Molly. She was one of the few people who didn't find Sherlock more trouble than he was worth.

"He used to work here," Molly was saying. "I knew him. He was nice."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at her prattle. "Fine. We'll start with the riding crop." He smiled in delight.

"Must we?" John whined just to make Sherlock scrunch his nose and glare. "I mean really? Why can't you start with a cricket bat first for once?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "I do not own a cricket bat, John. Neither do you, if you'll remember."

John shrugged, unconcerned. "I'm willing to be that Molly does, don't you, Molls?" He grinned engagingly at the mousy woman.

"I…I d-do, actually," Molly stammered with a blush. "But I don't…don't bring it to work with me."

Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. "Well, well," he drawled. "Isn't our little Molly just full of surprises for us today? Bring it next time, won't you?"

"Um…okay," Molly answered. "Why?"

Sherlock snorted. "To please John, why else?"

"Right," Molly nodded absently and she and John exited the room, leaving Sherlock to his experiment.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John shook his head fondly as his husband beat the elderly gentleman's corpse in a quest for truth and justice. "I'm going to the cafeteria, Molly, you want anything?"

"That's very sweet of you, John, but no thank you. I'm fine." She gave him a smile.

"Keep an eye on him, would you?" John requested. "He's in a bit of a mood today so he might be a bit…um, not nice."

Molly let out a light laugh. "I'm very well acquainted with Sherlock's various moods, John. He never says anything that I can't brush off. He'll be fine and I have a thicker skin than you'd think."

Molly watched John as he left the room and then pulled out her phone. She sent off a quick text and then turned back to watching Sherlock.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"John Watson?" A voice called out as John tried to juggle the two trays he held and the cups of coffee. He turned around and faced the caller as the plates slid alarmingly.

John searched his memory for the stranger's identity until it finally clicked. "Mike Stamford?"

"Right in one," Mike's round face creased in a smile. "Sherlock told me about that nasty business in Afghanistan. I'm very sorry, John."

John gave a half shrug and a small smile. "No matter, really."

Mike gave him a smile back. "Did you want some help, John?" Without waiting for an answer he took one of the trays and a cup of coffee from John's hands. "For Sherlock, right? Where's he at today?"

"Thanks Mike. Yes and he was in the morgue but he's probably at the lab by now. I'd forgotten how long the lines at the cafeteria are."

"I know what you mean," Mike chuckled.

The two walked the halls of the hospital speaking companionably about everything and nothing. John hadn't seen Mike in more than five years but they'd kept in touch while he'd been abroad fighting. Mike kept a discreet eye on Sherlock for him and sent him amusing stories of Sherlock's antics within the walls of St. Bart's.

"Afternoon Sherlock," Mike sang out cheerfully as he held the door open for John to enter. Sherlock merely grunted in reply. "We brought you lunch."

"Not hungry," Sherlock responded without ever taking his eyes from the microscope in front of him.

"Tough," John said and pulled his husband away from the microscope and put a sandwich in his hand. "Eat or else," he warned.

"Or else what?" Sherlock asked interested despite himself.

"What do you think?" John gave him a significant look and Sherlock took a bite of the sandwich. John could be very scary when he wanted to and he never made idle threats.

Sherlock held out his hand imperiously. John sighed and set down his own sandwich before handing Sherlock his mobile, well Harry's mobile. Sherlock used one hand to type out a quick text and then handed the mobile back.

"It's nice to know that the two of you are the same as ever," Mike chortled.

"Did you expect anything different?" Sherlock asked archly.

Mike only laughed and then got to his feet. "I've a class to teach. I will see you later won't I?"

"I'll call you and we'll go out for drinks," John assured him. "It was good to see you, Mike."

Mike waved a hand and walked to the door of the lab. He held the door open for Molly who was carrying a cup of coffee and left.

Molly handed the coffee to Sherlock and then blinked when she saw the one sitting on the table. "Oh," she said quietly. "I didn't know John had brought you one."

"I'll drink them both, Molly." Sherlock assured her. "I'm finished here. John, go call us a cab. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He swept up both cups of coffee and disappeared out the door.

John shared an exasperated look with Molly before he too limped out the door.

"He's doing well," a voice said from the shadows.

"Yes," Molly responded without starting at the suddenness of the voice. "He's limping a bit but it's getting better. Sherlock says that just because it's mostly psychosomatic doesn't mean that it's completely psychosomatic. His shoulder hurts him when he's tired but other than that he's improving at a very rapid pace."

"Excellent," the man breathed out. "Someone needs to keep Sherlock in line." He paused for a moment and looked at her intently. "And you, my love? How are you feeling?"

Molly beamed at him and crossed the room to put her arms around his waist. He held her close and breathed in her fresh scent. "I feel fine, love. A bit tired at times but otherwise just fine."

He simply held her to his chest for a few moments. "We will have to tell them soon," he said eventually.

"Yes," she answered him before pulling away. "We can tell them whenever you're ready, dearest. Will I see you for dinner?"

He smiled softly at her, his blue eyes filled with an expression only she ever saw and the sun bringing out the red in his hair. "I shall be home by seven, Molly love, I promise."

She tilted her chin up for a kiss and then placed her hand along his jaw as he obliged her. The sun coming from the windows glinted off of the diamond on her ring finger and for a few moments the room was silence.

"I love you, my husband," Molly whispered as he finally broke the kiss.

"And I you, my wife," he whispered back.


	3. Lestrade

**Disclaimer: So Day Two of my trek to find Mt. Olympus and Eros. I have decided to only ask him to gift me with Lestrade as it would be cruel to part John and Sherlock. However for now, they are still not mine.**

**A/N: So did everyone figure out who Molly's mystery man is? If you didn't you have a week or so to think on it. This story won't be finished until next weekend as I have to leave tonight to spend the week out at my job site. Have a good week everyone and enjoy the story.**

**Lestrade**

Greg scowled to himself as he glared down at the body before him. Another one. Bloody Hell! Now he'd have to call in Sherlock. This was not going to be fun. Then again, Anderson was the forensics technician in charge tonight. Maybe it could be a bit enjoyable even if it was only to introduce John to Anderson and watch the sparks fly.

The thought of the two of them in the same room was an amusing one to Greg. John would not take Anderson's baiting of his husband with equanimity that was for sure. Maybe it was a good thing there had been a fourth suicide after all. It gave him an excellent reason to bring in Sherlock and with Sherlock came John, now he was home. Greg let a small smile cross his lips.

"You're calling in the Freak and Dr. John aren't you?" Sally whispered from beside him, making sure to keep her voice low so as not to attract Anderson's attention.

Greg nodded without commenting.

"You know Anderson's going to hit the roof, right?" She smirked. She couldn't wait for Dr. John to meet Anderson. She knew very well who would win any battle between the two. Dr. John may look nice and cuddly and ordinary but he'd been dealing with the Freak his whole life and he'd been in a war. Anderson was going to get a set down like they'd never seen before.

"Mmm," Greg hummed and then sent Sally a sharp look. "He's not still bothering you, is he?"

Sally shrugged a bit and gave him an uncomfortable smile. "He just keeps drunk dialing me. Last week he showed up at my flat and wanted to talk. It's only been a month since I broke it off with him. It's nothing I can't handle, Lestrade, promise."

Greg's gaze didn't leave her but he gave another nod. "Don't let Sherlock know or he'll be very upset."

"Why would he care if Anderson's being creepy?" Sally wondered aloud.

"He wouldn't normally, but John likes you and so anything that bothers you will upset John. Sherlock would be angry because John's upset." Greg explained.

Sally thought about that for a moment before a small smile creased her lips. "That actually makes sense in a Freak kind of way."

Greg chuckled lowly. "It does at that." He took a breath and then turned away. "Watch the scene, Donovan, I'll be back in a bit."

"Of course, sir," Sally nodded and followed Greg from the building to secure the perimeter.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John arranged Sherlock's Union Jack pillow on the chair and then sank gratefully into it. He used the hand not holding his tea mug to rub at his thigh. Maybe he'd overdone it yesterday and today. He was still recovering and while his shoulder was giving him little trouble the scar on his thigh, from a bullet nearly two years ago, was aching like mad today.

He looked around the parlour and sighed loudly. "Sherlock!" He called to the man in the kitchen. "I thought you were going to finish unpacking today."

The other man wandered in from the kitchen and stood by the window. "I will," he said airily. "Just not right this minute. I'm busy."

"Busy?" John eyed his husband's lounging form with a jaundiced eye. "Really, Sherlock? Doing what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes his gaze never leaving the window. "Waiting."

"Hello dears," Mrs. Hudson called out and walked into the room. She set a plate of biscuits on the low table in the parlour and kissed the top of John's head. "I've brought you some biscuits. Just this once, mind. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper. How are you this evening? Is your leg bothering you?"

"Thank you Mrs. Hudson," John gave the elderly woman a smile. "We're fine and only a little bit."

She patted him on the shoulder and then glared mildly at the kitchen. "Sherlock! Look at what a mess you've made." She bustled into the kitchen and picked up the newspaper from the table. "What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street." Sherlock twitched the curtain aside and didn't answer her. "Three exactly the same."

Sherlock's body tensed in sudden alertness as something on the street outside caught his attention. "Four," he said confidently. "There's been a fourth, and there's something different this time." He turned away from the window his brain filled with smug satisfaction. It was about time Lestrade showed up.

"A fourth?" Mrs. Hudson questioned faintly.

They all turned as heavy, quick footsteps pounded up the stairs. Greg appeared in the doorway slightly out of breath from running. "Where?" Sherlock asked before the man even made it through the door.

Greg rolled his eyes at Sherlock. He knew exactly how eager and excited the younger man was no matter how he tried to mask it. He nodded a hello at John and Mrs. Hudson. "Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." He shoved his hands in his pockets and waited.

"What's new about this one?" Sherlock asked quickly. "You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different." Sherlock unconsciously mirrored Greg's body language.

"You know how the never leave notes?" Greg confirmed Sherlock's knowledge of the case. Sometimes Sherlock's hacking skills were useful. Not for press conferences but he made it so much easier to get information across when Greg didn't have to spell it out.

"Yeah," Sherlock answered impatiently.

"This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock asked warily.

"Anderson." Greg tried very hard to keep his glee hidden.

Sherlock scowled and looked hard at John. "Anderson's an idiot," Sherlock said harshly. "And he won't work with me."

"So bring John along and then you'll be all set," Greg shrugged. "Will you come?"

"Not in a police car," Sherlock almost sneered. "We'll be right behind."

"Thank you," Greg said almost sarcastically. He knew that Sherlock was just itching to come and they only did this little dance of disinterest for their amusement. "See you there, John." He hurried out the door and down the stairs to the waiting car.

Sherlock waited until he saw Lestrade on the street below and then started jumping around the room in delight. "Brilliant!" He yelled. "Yes! Ah! Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas! Mrs. Hudson, we'll be late." He gathered up his coat. "Might need some food." He shrugged into the coat as he headed for the door. John laboriously heaved himself to his feet. He had no doubt that Sherlock had forgotten that his leg was paining him but that didn't seem to matter to either of them at the excitement of a case.

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson protested futilely. They all three knew that she was much more than their landlady and that there would be at the very least sandwiches waiting for them when they returned if not a full meal in the oven.

"Something cold will do," Sherlock went on as though she hadn't spoken. He picked up John's rarely used cane from by the door and tossed it to him. "Bring it along in case Anderson gets lippy."

John deftly caught the cane and then leaned on it heavily. His leg really did hurt today. "And just what am I supposed to do with it if he does?"

Sherlock gave him an 'are you an utter idiot' look. "Bash him over the head with it, of course." He answered, even though he found it a stupid question, because it was John that had asked it.

John rolled his eyes at his husband. "I'm sure Greg would just love it if I did that, Sherlock."

"Yes, I'm quite sure he would too," Sherlock beamed at him. He grabbed John's elbow to hurry him along. "Come on, John or I shall be forced to carry you and what would that do for your image with the Yarders do you think?"

John gamely allowed his husband to manhandle him into his coat. "You try it and you'll be the one getting bashed over the head with my cane," he threatened as he followed Sherlock down the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson listened to her two boys bickering good naturedly as they left the building and couldn't stop the giggles at their antics.


	4. The Crime Scene

**Disclaimer: Still not mine. They weren't five minutes ago and they aren't now.**

**A/N: So as I've got to be gone all week I decided to give all of you a present. I'm going to upload all that I have finished for this story. There are still a few chapters unwritten but at least it's more than you were expecting. Enjoy and let me know what you think.**

**The Crime Scene**

Sgt. Sally Donovan stood at the perimeter of the crime scene waiting for DI Lestrade to return. She really hoped he'd managed to get the Freak and Dr. John to come. It wasn't that she actually liked the Freak, she told herself. It was just that cases were so much easier to solve when he was involved.

She masked her disappointment when Lestrade drove up alone. He got out of the panda car he'd used to run over to the Freak's flat and made his way over to her. "They're on their way," he told her and ducked under the crime scene tape. "Wait for them, would you, Donovan? And show them up when they get here."

"Of course, sir," Sally nodded. Lestrade walked away into the building where Jennifer Wilson lay. Only moments later she spotted the two forms approaching. Dr. John was limping heavily and using a cane. She wondered what was wrong and resolved to ask him as soon as she got the chance.

"Hello Freak, Dr. John," she greeted them when they'd approached the tape.

"Sgt. Sally," Dr. John smiled at her.

"Evening Donovan," the Freak nodded. "So…dead body? Where?"

Sally found herself smirking at him. "No deductions today then? Follow me." She held up the tape for them and motioned them towards the building. "Freak's here. Bringing him in." She radioed up to Lestrade.

"I could deduce plenty about you today, Sally," the Freak told her. "Starting with the fact that you and Anderson still haven't gotten back together yet."

Sally resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "That's it? Off your game today, Freak." She waved the men ahead of her into the building. "Everyone knows we're not together anymore and never going to be again."

"You had a grilled chicken sandwich with mayonnaise for lunch and at least five cups of coffee today." He said. "You've also spoken with Mr. Brody today."

Sally nodded wondering how the Hell he knew that. "He's coming to London for a showing in two weeks," she confirmed. "They're upstairs."

John glared at the stairs, sighed and started up them behind Sally and Sherlock. It would figure that the body was upstairs on the one day that his leg was hurting.

The trio stopped at the top of the stairs and observed the bustle of activity. Lestrade spotted them and made his way through the crowd to them. Sally stepped away a few paces to speak with one of the PCs.

"Anderson!" Lestrade called out a few moments later.

"What is he doing here?" Anderson snarled when he got close enough. "We don't need him, Lestrade. He's only going to contaminate my crime scene!"

Sherlock snorted and John glared at him. He really didn't want to have to beat Anderson up again but he'd do it if the man didn't start to show a bit of respect.

"Anderson, this is Dr. or Captain John Watson, Sherlock's husband," Lestrade introduced them.

"Watson-Holmes," Sherlock corrected and then turned to the room with the body in it. John shook his head fondly after his husband.

"Yes, Sherlock, Dr. Watson-Holmes," he gave Anderson a polite smile but Anderson just scowled.

"I don't care if he's the Queen!" Anderson yelled after them as all three of them strode into the room. "I don't want them on my crime scene!"

"We could…" John started, turning his head towards Lestrade.

"No, I called you here and so far I'm the one in charge of this investigation. The day Anderson becomes lead then he can kick you off a crime scene, until then you stay." Lestrade gave Anderson a sharp, warning look. "Sherlock, what do you have?"

"Dr. John!" Sally called from the doorway.

"Excuse me," John said to the others.

"Are you alright?" Sally asked him as she pulled him into a quiet corner. "I thought you were only shot in the shoulder."

John smiled at her gently. "This time, yes. I was shot in the thigh a few years ago and sometimes I manage to overexert it. Sherlock's been running all over London the past few days for a private case and I foolishly followed him."

Sally gave a sigh of relief. "Glad it's not something serious, Dr. John."

"Donovan! I need my husband now." Sherlock called out to the pair. He was kneeling beside the body of a woman clad in bright pink.

"What if I don't want to let him go?" Sally asked with a mischievous glint as she put a restraining hand on John's arm.

Sherlock looked up and his lips twitched as he fought off a smile. "Keep him then," Sherlock called back. "He sings horribly in the shower and snores loud enough to wake the neighbors."

Sally scrunched up her nose. "Never mind then. I can't stand a man that snores." She gave John a pat on the back and made her way back down the stairs.

Sherlock nodded calmly. "Works out rather well this way. Now I don't have to beat her with my violin. Would have regretted that."

"Really?" Greg asked, surprised.

Sherlock looked up confused. "Of course, it's a very valuable instrument."

"Psychopath," Anderson muttered under his breath.

"Actually, I'm the one that shoots people for a living," John said cheerfully as he hobbled past him. "Sherlock catches people like me."

Anderson heard the DI snicker in the background and the Psychopath scowled. "Being a soldier is completely different, John. High-functioning sociopath, Anderson, do your research."

"Tell that to my drill sergeant, Sherlock. What did you need?" The doctor knelt down by the body painfully.

Sherlock gave his husband a small smile. "He was rather enthusiastic, wasn't he? How did she die?" He motioned at the body.

John chuckled with a nod and then turned his full attention to the woman in pink. "Nails on the left hand are chipped. She's left-handed then," he pointed out quietly almost to himself. "She was trying to write something with her fingernails as she died. R-A-C-H-E…what though? Not revenge."

"Mmm," Sherlock breathed out in pleasure. He'd forgotten what it was like to work with someone who knew what they were doing. Lestrade and Donovan weren't bad but they couldn't hold a candle to his John. "See Anderson?" He asked smugly. "She's not German and she wasn't trying to write out rache."

"No," John said distractedly. "Rachel, maybe?"

Sherlock beamed at him. "Very good! Now how did she die?" He asked again even though he hated repeating himself. John had been distracted by the puzzle and so could be forgiven for forcing him to repeat himself.

"What do you mean she's not German?" Anderson scoffed. "Rache's German for revenge."

Sherlock glared at him while John held up one of the woman's hands. Irritated Sherlock leapt to his feet and slammed the door in Anderson's face. "She is from out of town. Intended to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

John finally looked up from the woman's hand. "The wet patches?" He asked, seeking confirmation. "It's been raining in Cardiff all day. Oh and it was asphyxiation, probably. She passed out and choked on her own vomit. I can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure, possibly drugs. Though with the other three suicides with the same circumstances I'm going to say it was most likely poison."

"Sherlock, I need anything you got," Greg interrupted. "The team needs to get back in here and process the body and catalogue evidence and such."

"Right," Sherlock stood up. "Victim is in her late 30s. Professional person, going by her clothes. I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night." He paced in front of Lestrade and out onto the landing. John climbed to his feet and limped after him. "That's obvious by the size of her suitcase."

Greg looked up startled. "Suitcase?"

Sherlock continued his pacing. "Suitcase, yes. She's been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married." He looked all around the room as though trying to find something.

"Sherlock, we need to be able to provide the courts with proof more than your say so," Greg reminded. It was an old argument but Sherlock usually came through in the end.

Sherlock came to a stop by the body and waved an arm over it. "Her wedding ring, ten years old at least." He knelt down still gesturing. "The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage, right there." Greg snuck a quick peek at his own wedding ring. Sherlock snorted. "Joanne slips yours off while you're sleeping every week and cleans it, Lestrade. She knows you're too busy to do it so she takes care of it."

Greg gave a grunting type of chuckle. "And I suppose your wedding rings are also cleaned often."

Sherlock gave him a level look. "Quite. The inside of her ring is shinier than the outside. That means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what, or rather who, does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover. She'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them, simple."

"You never cease to amaze me, Sherlock," John told him.

"Cardiff?" Greg broke in before the two could start snogging in the middle of his crime scene.

"Her coat's only partially dry," John spoke up. "The only place it's been raining that would leave her coat collar wet after a train ride is Cardiff. Her suitcase probably has the same patches in places."

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Greg asked.

Sherlock spun around in a circle, searching the room again. "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel'?" Greg asked, brightening. Finally a clue he could follow up on besides finding a Jennifer Wilson in Cardiff.

"No! She was leaving an angry note in German," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Sherlock," John said warningly.

Sherlock waved the warning off. "Of course she was writing 'Rachel'. John told you that just moments ago. There's no other word it can be. Question is, why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

Greg had absolutely no desire to get into motives with Sherlock. "So how do you know she had a suitcase?" He asked in an effort to change the subject.

"Back of her right leg," Sherlock pointed. "Tiny splash marks on the heel and calf not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case going by the spread." He turned to look Greg in the eyes. "Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious, it could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night. Now where is it, what have you done with it?" He knelt back down.

"There wasn't a case," Greg offered hesitantly.

Sherlock slowly knelt back and looked up at him. "Say that again." He ordered.

Greg grimaced. "There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."

Sherlock jumped to his feet and brushed past Greg and John. "Suitcase," he yelled out to the cops. "Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" He started down the stairs quickly.

Greg and John followed him a bit more slowly. "Sher," Greg called out. "There's no case!"

Sherlock spun around and looked up at them. "They take the poison themselves," he started earnestly. "They chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn't miss them."

"Right, yeah, thanks." John joined Greg at the railing a small smile creasing his lips. "And?"

"Don't you see?" John asked quietly. "She had to have a case and yet there isn't one here which means that someone else has it. Someone who was with her before she died. Someone that convinced her to take the poison. These aren't suicides, Greg, they're murders. Otherwise the case would be here."

"Oh," Greg nodded dismayed as Sherlock ranted out everything John had just explained.

Sherlock sped down the stairs shouting about the case and John and Greg shared exasperated looks with each other. "Pink!" Sherlock exploded finally. Greg looked over at John for an explanation.

"The case has to be pink and no man on earth would be caught dead with a pink suitcase."

"Right," Greg nodded. "Better follow him, John or he's going to get himself in trouble. If he doesn't text me in two hours about the case I'll get some of the lads together for a drug's bust." John nodded resigned.

John slowly made his way after his husband who had completely disappeared by the time he made it to the bottom of the steps. John grumbled as he walked out the front door to find a cab. There was no way he'd ever find Sherlock now. Sherlock should have waited for him. The person was bound to have tossed the case out as soon as he'd realized it was there. Another pair of hands could have been useful in the search.

"He's run off, Dr. John," Sally informed him. "He does that."

"Yes, I know," John sighed. "Any idea which way?" Sally shook her head. "Where can I find a cab then?"

Sally pointed down the road. "Main road's that way."

"Thanks, Sgt. Sally."

"Not a problem, Dr. John," she paused and gathered her courage. "I'm sorry he forgot you."

"Don't be," he shook his head. "He'll not do it again or I'll have his head." Sally laughed. "See you in a few hours then." Sally lifted an eyebrow. "Sherlock's off looking for the dead lady's suitcase. He'll find it and then take it home to search it."

Sally smiled. "Drug's bust then?"

John nodded and limped towards the road after saying good bye.

Sally watched him go and shook her head. The Freak was going to be in big trouble if he kept running off without his husband. She only hoped that she got to watch the fireworks.


	5. Mycroft

**Disclaimer: Again not mine nor do I make any money from the stories. I just play in this world I don't own it.**

**A/N: So last chapter for this week unless I finish the next before I have to get ready to leave. As I have to leave in less than an hour that's not likely. Have fun and see you next weekend.**

**Mycroft**

The ringing payphone a few steps from the police tape got barely a glance from John. He limped on towards the main road and a cab. The second payphone ringing while he tried to hail a cab made him look at in confusion. No cabs stopped and John continued down the street towards the tube station. He knew that it was at least ten more blocks to the station but he didn't have much choice.

The third ringing phone earned a pained grimace as John debated picking up. He knew who it was and he was a bit ashamed that he really did want to answer it and get a ride home from his pseudo older brother. It was rather galling that Mycroft knew that Sherlock had left him. Finally he decided to answer it knowing that Mycroft wouldn't give up.

"Hello Mycroft," John said into the receiver.

"John," Mycroft's voice was chiding. "It's not nearly as fun when you know what's going on."

John rolled his eyes. The Holmes brothers and their penchant for dramatics were going to be the death of him yet. "Right." He said. "Want me to start over?"

"If you would be so kind," John could hear the grin behind Mycroft's posh tones.

Without another word John hung up the phone and waited for it to ring again. He picked it up on the first ring. "Hello?" He asked in what he hoped passed for a confused voice though he could feel the grin tugging at his cheeks.

"There is a security camera on the building to your left," John could tell that Mycroft was trying to make his voice as bland and unconcerned as possible. He supposed if he hadn't known who it was he would be a bit worried but he wasn't. "Do you see it?"

John resolutely kept his gaze away from the camera, teasing Mycroft just a little. "Who's this?" John licked his lips to try not to grin at Mycroft's game. "Who's speaking?"

"Do you see the camera, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft's voice insisted.

John finally lifted his eyes to the said camera. "Yeah, I see it," he said.

"Watch." The camera slowly spun until it was facing away from him. "There's another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

"Mm-hmm," John hummed. It too turned away from him.

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right," John turned to look and saw another camera with its back to him.

"How are you doing this?" John asked truly curious. Mycroft would never tell him no matter how many times he asked him too.

"Get into the car, Dr. Watson," Mycroft said. He didn't answer the question again but then John hadn't really been expecting an answer. "I would make some sort of threat," _but you are married to my baby brother and are like a brother to me yourself, _John supplied mentally. "But I'm sure your situation is clear to you." _Yep, _John internally agreed. _My leg is killing me and you're offering me a ride home without me having to ask. Thank you, Mycroft. _Mycroft hung up before John could say anything else and a black car pulled to a stop by the phone booth.

John eyed the car for a moment before exiting the phone booth and stepping towards it. "Hello John," A said from inside the car.

John climbed in. "Evening…" He said to the simply beautiful dark haired woman seated inside.

"Um, Anthea, I think."

"Very pretty name choice, Anthea." He approved. "Evening Anthea. Any idea what Mycroft wants tonight?" She only lifted her eyes from her BlackBerry long enough to give him a mysterious smile. "Not going to tell me then? All right."

The two rode in silence for a few blocks and then Anthea looked up again. "I'm glad you're doing better, John." She told him.

John gave her a soft smile. "So am I." He paused and rubbed at his thigh. "Not so much today though."

Anthea frowned just a little bit. "You should get a job," she commented. "Then you'd have a few hours where Sherlock isn't running you ragged."

John chuckled. "It's a thought. I'll tell you a secret though. Most times I like it when Sherlock runs me ragged."

Anthea shook her head and snickered. "We're here, John." She told him as the car pulled to a stop.

"See you in a bit, Anthea," John said as he got out. He looked around the abandoned warehouse for a moment and nearly laughed at the small patio table, complete with umbrella, and chairs set up to one side.

"Good evening, John," Mycroft said as he emerged from the shadows beside the table. "Come and share a cup of tea with me?"

John eyed the cups suspiciously as he hobbled towards the table. He couldn't see any way out of accepting a cup and sighed at the thought of being drugged again.

"It's only a mild pain reliever, I promise," Mycroft told him.

John sat across from him and scowled. "Why does everyone insist on drugging me?" He whined.

"Everyone?" Mycroft lifted a brow at him. "Surely you exaggerate," he pushed a plate of biscuits to John.

John snagged a biscuit and shook his head. "While I was in hospital Sherlock, you, A, Greg and Sgt. Sally all hit the self-medicate button at times. Since I've been home Sherlock, Greg and A have all slipped something into my tea. I'm fairly certain that Mrs. Hudson has been baking some of her herbal soothers into the biscuits she brings me and now you again. Why do you all insist on drugging me?"

"I cannot, of course, speak for the others but you are a very stubborn man, John. You won't take pain medication voluntarily no matter how much pain you are in. Instead of arguing with you I circumvent the inevitable dispute and simply slip you some unawares. Or try too anyway."

John gave him a mild glare and gulped some of the tea. "That's not a good reason, Mycroft. But I suppose it is a reason." They were interrupted by John's mobile pinging a text alert.

_Where are you?_

_ -SH_

John chuckled and put his mobile away. "How do the Americans put it?" Mycroft mused. "The old ball and chain tightening the leash?"

John laughed a bit more and then tossed back the rest of the tea. "Something like that, yes. Thank you for the tea, Mycroft. I will see you Sunday?"

"Sunday dinner with Mummy? Yes, of course I'll be there. See you then, John," Mycroft smiled as John stood. "Five o'clock."

John's phone pinged again.

_Come home._

_ -SH_

John waved to Mycroft with a chuckle and limped back to the car his cane tapping along the floor. "I'm to take you home now, John." Anthea said.

John grinned cheekily. "Then I guess it's a good thing that's where I want to go, isn't it?"

Anthea grinned back and they both climbed into the car and drove off towards 221B Baker Street.


	6. The Text

**Disclaimer: Still Day Two of the hunt for Eros and I still haven't found him. Should be in Greece by tomorrow though. Sherlock and company are not mine. **

**A/N: Ha! What do you know I did it! So here's the last chapter for this week. Seriously this time. I put off packing to write and now I have to hurry. Hope you like it. Let me know.**

**The Text **

John limped up the seventeen stairs to the door of 221B. He should really tell Mycroft thank you but he just couldn't tell the older man that he'd been right. His leg felt much better but Mycroft's already large ego would swell to enormous proportions if he told him he'd been right. "Sherlock?" He called as he opened the door. "You…what are you…you and your patches! How many this time?"

"It's a three patch problem, John," Sherlock scoffed before assuming his normal thinking pose and closing his eyes.

John sent him a mild glare knowing that trying to yell at Sherlock for leaving him behind right now was futile. "Well?" He finally asked. "You ordered me to come home. I'm assuming it was important."

Sherlock's eye popped open. "Oh! Yeah, of course. Can I use your phone?"

John took a deep breath. "My phone, Sherlock? You have one of your own!"

"Don't want to use mine. Always a chance the number will be recognized. It's on the website."

John felt irritation curling in his gut. "Mrs. Hudson has a phone," he reminded his husband.

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear," Sherlock dismissed that idea.

"I was on the other side of London, Sherlock," John said sharply.

"There was no hurry," Sherlock told him laconically closing his eyes again.

John glowered at him and then reached in his pocket and pulled out his phone. "Here." Sherlock held out a hand palm up without opening his eyes and John slapped it into his palm. John shook his head with a final futile glare before crossing to the other side of the room before the urge to strangle his husband became too hard to ignore. "So, what's this about, the case?"

"Her case," Sherlock breathed out.

"Her case?" John asked.

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake."

"I knew that already." John stood with his back to the fire. "So?"

"It's no use; there's no other way," Sherlock said to himself, ignoring John again. "We'll have to risk it." He took a deep breath. "On my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text."

"Are your fingers broken?" John asked sarcastically, knowing Sherlock wouldn't hear him. "You ordered me away from a nice cup of tea to send a text?"

"Text, yes, the number's on my desk." Sherlock didn't even acknowledge John's statement. If he hadn't been so embroiled in the case he'd have known that John had spent the last half hour or so with his brother.

Sherlock held the phone out again and John finally took it. He moved to the window stalling because he wanted Sherlock to at least look at him and realize that he was frustrated with him. He wasn't quite sure why he was doing this when he knew that yelling at Sherlock while he was in the middle of a case was futile at best.

"You've had tea with Mycroft," Sherlock said suddenly.

"Yes," John nodded still staring out the window.

"He slipped you pain relievers for your leg," Sherlock sounded like he was pouting but John refused to look up to confirm it.

"I am aware, Sherlock," John nodded complacently. He slanted Sherlock a glance and nearly laughed. The younger man was pouting. He was adorable and suddenly John didn't mind being left behind so much. Sherlock was probably trying to spare him in some Sherlock way.

Sherlock gave him an assessing look and nodded. "About time someone did, you've figured out all my sneaky ways." He lay back down on the sofa. "On my desk, the number."

John bit his lip and finally walked over to the desk and picked up the paper with the phone number written on it. "Jennifer Wilson," he read aloud. "That was…hang on." He turned his head to look over at Sherlock again. "Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes, that's not important. Just enter the number. Are you doing it?"

"Yes."

"Have you done it?"

"Yeah. Hang on! Not everyone has lightening thumbs from texting all the time." John snapped at him.

"These words exactly:" Sherlock ignored John's peevishness. "'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. 22 North Umberland Street, please come.'"

"You had better mean her and not you on the blacking out thing," John warned.

"Of course," Sherlock leapt from the sofa. "Type and send it, quickly." He stepped on the table, off the other side and strode to the kitchen pulling a pink suitcase off of a chair and then walked to stand by John and look over his shoulder at the text. "Have you sent it?"

"What's the address?" John asked as he typed it in. He was only trying to get a reaction from Sherlock for his own amusement.

"22 North Umberland Street," Sherlock bit out, unhappy with John's teasing. "Hurry up." Sherlock sat down in a chair behind John, placed the case on a chair he turned around and opened the suitcase while John finished and sent the text.

John eyed Sherlock and the case. "So you found her case then?"

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled and pushed himself up to sit on the back of the chair with his feet on the cushion.

John sat in his armchair across from Sherlock. "Where did you find it?"

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention to themselves, particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake." Sherlock looked over and locked eyes with John. "I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Would have taken half that had you waited for me," John pointed out.

"Then you would have missed tea with Mycroft."

"Not the point, Sherlock. You could have explained what you wanted done and waited for me."

"You already knew I was going to look for the case. The rest you could have deduced easily."

"Why didn't I think of that?" John wondered aloud in a sarcastic tone that went right over his husband's head.

"Because you're an idiot," John gave him a sharp, disapproving look. "No, no, no, don't be like that. Practically everyone is. Now, look, do you see what's missing?" Sherlock pointed at the case and changed the subject. He thought that he maybe shouldn't have called his husband an idiot especially as John wasn't an idiot but it had just slipped out. He was so used to everyone around him being idiots that it was a hard habit to break, rather like Sgt. Donovan's calling him a freak still.

John eyed the case but didn't feel like letting Sherlock off the hook so easily. "Razor, a telly, a space shuttle, a box of nicotine patches, I could go on and on about what's not in this case, Sherlock. Why don't you just tell me what I'm not seeing? I am an idiot after all and it could take me quite a while to figure out what's missing."

Sherlock flushed a bit then stood and leaned over John, kissing him on the cheek. "Sorry?"

"Yes, yes," John waved his apology away and caught his lips with his own. "Forgiven." He breathed when they'd finished the kiss. "Now where is her phone? You didn't have me text a murderer, did you?"

Sherlock grinned. "Very good!" They were interrupted by John's phone ringing. John picked it up and stared at the message that read: Number withheld. It could have been Mycroft but he seriously doubted it. "A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her."

"Or us," John shook his head. "Now a murderer has my phone number. Thanks, love."

Sherlock leapt to his feet and slammed the case closed. "He won't be after you. He's panicking."

"Have you called Greg?" John asked knowing that Sherlock probably hadn't.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Four people are dead. There isn't time to call Lestrade."

"But there's time to talk to me and wait while I traverse London?" John scoffed.

Sherlock pulled his coat off the stand and shrugged into it. "Let's go to dinner. Mrs. Hudson didn't leave us anything."

John stood up with the help of his cane. "We did say we'd be late."

"True." Sherlock breezed out the door and John faithfully followed almost positive they were going to stake out 22 North Umberland Street and hopeful there was a restaurant nearby.


	7. Angelo's

**Disclaimer: Not mine…though I spent the week hoping. Unfortunately there was no response to any of my calls to BBC, still. So I don't own them and I make no money from my little hobby.**

**A/N: Right so here's the beginning of this weekend's updates. Hope you all enjoy it. As always let me know what you think.**

**Angelo's**

John kept pace with Sherlock as they strode down the street with some difficulty for all of the lessening of the pain from Mycroft drugging him. Sherlock was mostly silent as he ran through what he knew of the case and John followed his lead for the moment. He looked up at one of the street signs and smirked. He'd been right; they were staking out 22 North Umberland Street.

"Where are we going?" John asked when as they continued down the street he knew would bisect North Umberland.

"North Umberland Street, do keep up, John and I'm not talking about your limp." Sherlock gave him a concerned look. "You're normally much more on the ball."

John just sighed. "I'm tired, I'm hungry and no matter how mild I am now high, my brain isn't working at full capabilities so excuse me for being a bit slower than you.

"You're still faster than a normal human," Sherlock patted his back and then grasped his hand as they crossed a street. "Almost there. 22 North Umberland is only five minutes from Baker Street.

"You don't really think he's stupid enough to come there, do you?"

"No I think he's brilliant enough," Sherlock corrected excitedly. "I love the brilliant ones; they're always so desperate to get caught."

John shook his head fondly at his husband's energetic voice and movements. Sherlock was once again caught up in the puzzle he loved so much and John could do nothing more than hold on, sit back and enjoy the ride. "Why?" He asked aloud hoping to spur Sherlock into a long winded explanation that would help him keep his mind off of his leg which had nearly stopped hurting and his stomach which was growling loudly.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow at him. "Applause. Appreciation." It was said in a tone that told John Sherlock thought he was an idiot for asking. Well, it was a silly question. John knew all this already, he had been living with Sherlock and Mycroft for most of his life, after all. "At long last, the spotlight." Sherlock continued. "That's the frailty of genius, John, it needs an audience."

John smirked at Sherlock's words. "Yeah," he said on a light chuckle. "I did know that, Sherlock."

Sherlock ignored the acidic comment and dropped John's hand to spin in a circle, eyes darting everywhere, looking for clues and ideas. "This is his hunting ground. Right here in the heart of the city." He turned another full circle and then continued to walk the way they had been going. "Now that we know his victims were abducted, that changes everything. Because all of his victims disappeared from busy streets, crowded places, but no one saw them go." John made an agreeing noise but he wasn't really paying much attention. His nose had detected a café or a restaurant nearby. "Think!" Sherlock charged him. "Who do we trust even though we don't know them?" Sherlock's voice was impassioned and yet plaintive. "Who passes unnoticed wherever they go?"

"Servants," John offered. "Delivery people, bus drivers, cab drivers, shopkeepers, the homeless, I could go on and on, and you know it. No one sees anything or anyone but what they want to."

Sherlock continued as though John hadn't spoken. "Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

John just gave him a sardonic look. "I don't know," he said a bit sarcastically knowing Sherlock wouldn't catch on to his mocking, not when his prodigious brain was busy with thoughts of a serial killer. "Who?"

Sherlock steepled his hands in front of his mouth and nose. "Haven't the faintest," John snorted at that pronouncement. Sherlock really had problems listening when he was in the depths of a case. "Hungry?"

"Oh God, yes," John grinned. His stomach growled loudly to prove his point. "If I'm eating then so are you," he ordered as Sherlock pushed open the door to an Italian restaurant that John hadn't ever noticed before.

The waiter at the checkout desk looked up and simply motioned Sherlock and John to a table by the window. "Thank you, Billy," Sherlock said. Sherlock shrugged out of his jacket as he sat down on one side of the booth and John sat across from him. "22 North Umberland Street," he nodded out the window to the building across the street. "Keep your eyes on it."

John gave him a disgruntled look. "Now you tell me that. My back is to the window, Sherlock." John struggled out of his own coat. "He isn't going to just ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad."

"He has killed four people."

"Okay," John didn't really feel like pointing out that he, himself, had killed more than that especially since he wasn't completely certain that he was entirely sane. He had married Sherlock after all.

John situated himself more comfortably on the seat as a tall heavy set man walked up to the table with his hand outstretched towards Sherlock. "Sherlock," he said in a pleasant deep voice. He took Sherlock's hand and shook it vigorously. "Anything on the menu, anything you want, free. On the house, for you and for your date?" He grinned as he passed out the menus. Sherlock smiled back. The man looked uncomfortable for an instant as he eyed John and then he leaned closer to Sherlock. "I thought you were married, Sherlock," he said in a voice that was supposed to be too low for John to hear.

"I'm his husband," John corrected mildly.

Sherlock ignored the comment completely and stared at John. "Do you want to eat?"

"Yes," John nodded. "And so do you." Sherlock made a small sound in the back of his throat but picked up the menu.

John turned his head back to the man when he started speaking again. "This man got me off a murder charge."

Sherlock looked up from the menu and pointed one long finger at the man. "This is Angelo. Angelo, John, my husband." Angelo shook John's hand with the same vigorous attention he'd given Sherlock. "Three years ago, I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder, that Angelo was in a completely different part of town house-breaking."

"I remember you writing me about that case," John grinned in recognition.

"He cleared my name," Angelo told him, happy to share his pride in Sherlock with someone else.

"I cleared it a bit," Sherlock didn't look at either of them. Instead he continued watching out the window at the building across the street. "Anything happening opposite?"

Angelo shook his head. "Nothing." He turned back to John. "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison."

"You did go to prison," Sherlock reminded him.

Angelo ignored him. "I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic." He told John and moved away.

"It's not a date," John called after him. "Is it?" Sherlock shrugged. "Great. I get invalided home from Afghanistan with a great bloody hole in my shoulder and my husband takes me out on dates to crime scenes and stake outs."

Sherlock tossed his menu to the other side of the table. "You may as well eat. We might have a long wait."

"You too," John eyed him harshly. "You haven't eaten since yesterday." Angelo reappeared and placed a lit candle on the table. "Thanks," John nodded to him.

John ordered for both of them over Sherlock's protests. A few moments later Billy brought the food out and John glared until Sherlock ate a few bites. John knew that was the best he was going to get. Sherlock didn't eat while he was working; digestion slowed his thinking.

Sherlock eyes narrowed about halfway through their meal. "Look across the street," he ordered. "Taxi, stopped. Nobody getting in. Nobody getting out. Why a taxi?" He whispered.

John looked over his shoulder. "Oh, that's clever."

"Is it clever? Why is it clever?" Sherlock's question shot out like bullets.

"That's him," John answered a little surprised he'd figured it out first.

Sherlock frowned. "Don't stare," he ordered petulantly as he understood what John had seen.

"What? You're staring." John's voice was bordering on amused.

"We can't both stare." Sherlock grabbed up his coat and hurried to the door. John sighed heavily, grabbed his own coat and followed.


	8. The Chase

**Disclaimer: Day Whatever of my trek through Greece to find Eros or Cupid. I prefer to call him Eros because Cupid makes me think of a cute little angel with a tiny little bow and heart-shaped arrows. Eros makes me think of heat and sweat and a completely different kind of weapon. Anyway, still haven't found him though I do have a lead on Mr. Olympus. Apparently it's in New York now! Drat I'll have to fly back to the states. So, for now Sherlock and Co. are still not mine and I make no money from them or these stories.**

**A/N: So here's today's chapter. I'm not all that happy with it. It just didn't seem to want to be written and it took me a lot longer than normal but it's here now and I'm sick of thinking about it so you get what you get. WARNING: For those of you that are squeamish there is a snogging scene at the end. No sex or even nakedness just two guys (Sherlock and John, who else?) devouring each other's faces. On that note I shall allow you to read on.**

**The Chase**

Sherlock shrugged back into his coat outside Angelo's. Behind him John muttered, "0V04PYG," as he pulled his own jacket on. It was still a bit chilly even for spring. The dark haired man in the back of the taxi turned his head and stared straight at them. Then he turned back to face the front and the taxi began to drive off. Sherlock immediately gave chase and was dealt a glancing blow by another car as he stepped into the street. "Idiot," John muttered at him.

Sherlock merely skidded over the obstruction and ran down the street. John leapt over the hood of the car and chased after him yelling apologies to the driver. "I got the cab number," he called to Sherlock as the other man stopped for a moment.

"Good for you," Sherlock told him in a distracted tone. He was running through all the streets that the cab was likely to take. It took him only seconds to see the map in his mind and calculate the most likely route. "Right turn, one way, roadwork, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights." And he was off again, running to a map only he could see. John faithfully followed him knowing Sherlock would run down the taxi in the end.

"Oi!" A man yelled out when Sherlock pushed him out of the way so that he could run into a building.

"Sorry," John apologized for his husband as he ran past the disgruntled man.

They raced up the stairs, down a hallway, up a rickety spiral staircase onto the roof. "Come on, John," Sherlock called to him. Once on the roof they ran down another set of spiral stairs, jumped the railing onto a lower rooftop, across the building, jumped over a small alleyway, and across that roof to a larger alley. Sherlock didn't even slow down. John shook his head and hesitated. "Come on, John. We're losing him!" Sherlock urged.

With a deep breath John took a running leap over the alley to the other side. They ran across that roof and down the metal staircase on the other side, down the street, through an alley, around a corner and saw the cab pass the mouth of the alley. "Oh!" Sherlock groaned. He turned sharply to the right away from the cab. "This way!"

John turned to the left thinking to flank it. "No! This way!" Sherlock yelled at him. John spun around and nearly tripped over a woman that had exited a doorway.

"Sorry," he called to her and sped after his husband again. Down the street again, around another corner, past numerous pedestrians, skidding around yet more corners. John was becoming more and more breathless and yet he couldn't bring himself to call a halt to this mad chase. He had missed this madcap adrenaline rush while he'd been gone. Getting shot at in a war zone wasn't even close to the same thing as racing through dark London street with only his husband's flapping coat to lead the way.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour of running, Sherlock stepped out into the street in front of their quarry. The cabbie slammed on the brakes and Sherlock rolled to the side across the hood. "Police!" He yelled. "Open her up!" He flashed a badge that John was positive was stolen.

Sherlock ripped open the back door where the dark haired man sat. He looked in at the man for a moment, panting and then turned away frowning. "No." He turned back to the man. "Teeth, tan…what, Californian?" He spotted the tag on the luggage at the man's feet and turned it to read what it said. "L.A. Santa Monica. Just arrived."

John made an inquiring noise, not willing to waste the air he had left in his lungs to actually put words to his question.

It didn't matter much anyway. Sherlock had always been able to read him like a book. "The luggage," he snapped, angry that they'd been wrong. "Probably your first trip to London, right?" He asked the dark haired man. "Going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you."

The dark haired man stopped his nodding and gave Sherlock a suspicious look. "Sorry are you guys the police?"

Sherlock flashed the badge again. "Yeah. Everything all right?"

The man smiled a bit. "Yeah."

Sherlock nodded. "Welcome to London." He pushed off the cab door and walked away past John.

John leaned close to the cab and gave the man an uncertain smile. "Any problems, just let us know." He backed away and slammed the car door shut. He walked over to where Sherlock was waiting. "Basically just a cab that happened to slow down?" There was something wrong there, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

Sherlock frowned. "Basically."

"Not the murderer?"

"Not the murderer, no," Sherlock's voice was filled with frustration.

John looked off after the cab. "Wrong country, good alibi," he commented.

Sherlock turned to watch too. "As they go."

John reached over and pulled the badge out of Sherlock's pocket. "Hey, where did you get this?" He asked. "Detective Inspector Lestrade? You stole Greg's badge?"

Sherlock grinned. "Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one. I've got plenty at the flat. Think of it as a souvenir of our not date."

John gave him a sly smile. "I don't know. I'm out of breath and sweaty. Seems like that's how our dates usually finish. Though normally we're naked and horizontal but I'll take what I can get." He started to chuckle and then laugh.

Sherlock looked confused. "What?"

John drew a deep breath. "Nothing. Just 'Welcome to London'." He started laughing again.

Sherlock slowly smiled one of his truly delighted smiles and started to chuckle. From the corner of his eye he saw the Californian talking to a constable. "Got your breath back?"

John followed his gaze. "Ready when you are," he said.

Together they fled back the way they had come.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John hung his coat up by the door of 221 Baker Street. "That was ridiculous," he said breathlessly. "That was the most ridiculous thing we've ever done." He leaned back against the wall at the foot of the stairs.

Sherlock leaned next to him. "And you invaded Afghanistan."

John giggled and as always that high pitched sound coming from his husband started Sherlock laughing. "That wasn't just me," John objected.

Sherlock stared at his laughing husband for a moment. "I am happy that you're home, John," he said quietly, overcome with the pleasure of his husband's company and the fact that even though John had been gone for such a long time with only occasional visits that nothing had changed between them.

John grinned and nodded a light entering his eyes as he took in his husband's still breathless form. "You know," he said slowly in a husky voice. "We still have time to finish this date properly."

"Really?" Sherlock drawled. "That would be an excellent idea."

Before he could blink John was pushing him back against the wall as John's warm lips caught his own. Sherlock opened his mouth to let John devour him for a moment before spinning them so that John was pressed against the wall and Sherlock was pressed as close to him as physics and clothing would allow.

John's hands came up and pushed at Sherlock's coat. It slipped off of his shoulders and he let it fall to the floor before taking John's face in his hands and tilting his head until he satisfied with the positioning then he captured John's lips more firmly with his own. His fingertips stroked John's ears and his thumbs swept over his eyelids.

John's hands crept form his shoulders down to tug the back of his shirt from his trousers. They both gasped at the contact of skin on skin. "Sherlock," John panted after he pulled his head back. "Bed."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed and nipped at John's lips and chin. He threaded his hands through John's short blond hair to keep him still while he attacked his lips again. His tongue invaded and swept over teeth, tongue and the roof of John's mouth. Finally, when air became an issue he pulled back, tilted John's head back and laid a line of sucking kisses down his neck to his collarbones. "Here."

John gasped as fire raced through his veins and he forgot where they were. He fumbled around Sherlock's chest pulling his shirt apart and sending buttons flying. "Sherlock," he moaned.

"John," Sherlock sighed back. His fingers untangled from their grip and slid down to John's belt, pulling at it, determined to get his husband naked.

Sherlock had just finished undoing John's belt when a sharp rap on the door brought them to their senses. "Sherlock," John gasped in air. "The door."

"Bugger them," Sherlock growled and sent his fingers behind John's button. "Mrs. Hudson can get the door."

John would have happily complied except for the fact that he suddenly remembered where they were. "Sherlock, we're in the hall in front of the door."

Sherlock jerked back and looked around them in something akin to shock. He cursed under his breath, spun away from John to lean against the wall again and motioned for John to get the door.

John took a deep breath, redid his belt and went to the door just as the knocker sounded again. John opened it to Angelo's smiling face. "Dr. Watson," Angelo greeted. "Sherlock texted me. He said you forgot this," he passed over John's cane. "And I boxed up the rest of your food for you. Tell Sherlock his favorite pizzelles are in there."

John grinned and took Angelo's offerings. "Thank you," John nodded. "Really, thank you." Angelo started to leave and John reentered the house. "Sherlock," he said. "Angelo sent you pizzelles."

"Brilliant," Sherlock grinned. "Upstairs?" He asked hopefully. "We can share them." They turned to walk up the stairs.

"Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?" Mrs. Hudson asked tremulously as she came from her own flat into the hallway and saw the two of them.

The men turned towards her with frowns of confusion.

**A/N: There's a button down there that says R-E-V-I-E-W. Why don't you push it and see what happens?**


	9. Drugs Bust

**Disclaimer: Well, my contacts were wrong! Someone named Rick told them that Mr. Olympus was in New York. It was all lies! Now I've wasted time and have to backtrack to Greece. Still not mine. Dammit!**

**A/N: So, A big happy birthday to my sister Kim (last Tuesday) and my very own BAMF, Becca (today). I am dedicating this chapter to my sister because she's awesome. Becca's dedication is on another story because the entire thing is dedicated to her. That story will be out next weekend. Anyway, enjoy the story.**

**Drugs Bust**

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock gave voice to their confusion and concern.

"Upstairs." The elderly woman was nearly crying. Sherlock and John looked at each other, then back to her and Sherlock took off up the stairs to their flat buttoning his suit jacket to cover the remains of his shirt.

"Are you alright?" John asked her as he paused at her side. "What's going on?"

Mrs. Hudson drew in a deep, shaky breath and patted John's arm. "I'm fine, only worried. There are police men up there. They wouldn't tell me what they wanted, although, that silver haired fellow was very polite."

John's expression cleared in relief. "It's fine, Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock has a bad habit of…um, stealing evidence from the police and they've only come to retrieve it. The silver haired man is Detective Inspector Lestrade and he's a friend. Everything is fine." He assured her.

Mrs. Hudson nodded and put a hand over her heart. "Oh." She frowned then. "One of these days I'm going to box that boy's ears." She patted John's arm again. "You'd best get up there, dear. Who knows what mischief he'll get in to?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," John grinned and raced after his husband.

Sherlock threw open the door and glared at Lestrade. "What are you doing?" He spat out.

Lestrade looked up from his comfortable position in Sherlock's chair unconcerned. "Well, I knew you'd find the case. I'm not stupid." He gave John a nod of acknowledgement when he walked in and looked around. John nodded back with a slight grin.

Sherlock scowled. "You can't just break into my flat anymore, Lestrade. John's home."

Greg looked him in the eyes. "Yes, he is. You can't just withhold evidence anymore. John's home. Besides, I didn't break into your flat."

"Well, what do you call this then?" Sherlock asked loudly throwing his arms out to encompass the crowd of officers rooting through their flat.

Greg looked away for a moment. "It's a drugs bust," he said. He noticed John's slight wince at the reminder of Sherlock's darker days and gave him an apologetic shrug.

John sent him a forgiving smile and leaned against a bookcase. Sgt. Donovan joined him moments later and leaned in close. "Anderson's in the kitchen," Sally whispered.

John grimaced and walked over to lean on the doorjamb to the kitchen, keeping one eye on Sherlock and Greg and the other on Anderson.

"I'm not your sniffer dog," Sherlock said loudly and John realized that he hadn't been paying attention to the conversation between Greg and Sherlock.

"No," Greg agreed cheerfully. "Anderson's my sniffer dog."

Sherlock turned and glared towards the kitchen. Anderson shut the cupboard door he'd been hiding behind and gave a mocking wave. "Anderson! What are you doing here?" Sherlock growled. "And stay away from the honey, you barbaric thief!"

"Oh, I volunteered," Anderson drawled. "You couldn't pay me to take your honey."

Sally giggled behind her hand. "That sounded so wrong," she whispered to John as she passed by him to check the microwave.

John grinned with her. "He is an idiot and doesn't even realize the problem with what he just said."

"They all did," Greg said before Sherlock and Anderson could really start the sniping. "They're not, strictly speaking, on the drugs squad, but they're very keen."

Sally poked her head around the jamb of the kitchen. "Are these human eyes?" She asked and held up a jar filled with eyeballs. A few of the rookies blanched and she grinned.

"Put those back!" Sherlock yelled at her.

"They were in the microwave." Sally held them up higher and more of the rookies blanched. One of them even backed away from her and bumped into the wall. John snickered.

"It's an experiment," Sherlock said patronizingly. He turned away towards the window so that no one would see his smile at the reactions Donovan provoked from the rookies.

"Keep looking, guys," Greg called. Then he stood up. "Or you could start helping us properly and I'll stand them down."

"This is childish," Sherlock hissed as he paced past Greg.

"Well, I'm dealing with a child," Greg told him quietly. "Sherlock," he raised his voice so everyone could hear him. "This is our case. I am letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?" Greg stood with his hands on his hips glaring at the younger man with frustrated parental irritation.

"So you set up this pretend drugs bust to bully me?" Sherlock sneered. The answer to this case was just out of his reach and it was making him snappish. Anderson kept looking at him and then at John and then back at him and he was nearly ready to commit violence. On top of all the people in his house his snogging session with John had been interrupted. He just wanted everyone but John gone so they could pick up where they'd left off. Sex helped his brain reboot.

"It stops being pretend if we find anything, Psychopath," Anderson called from the kitchen.

Greg gave Sherlock a significant look and Sherlock glared. "I am clean," he shouted. "Have been for five years. And you know it, Lestrade!"

"Is your flat," Greg stood in his path to look him in the eye again. "All of it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mycroft packed it all while I was at the hospital with John, Lestrade. What do you think? Of course, it's clean!" He started to unbutton his shirt cuff. "I don't even smoke." He pulled up his sleeve to show off the nicotine patch on his inner arm.

"Neither do I," Greg showed Sherlock his own arm and patch. He stood next to Sherlock. "So let's work together." Both men pulled down their sleeves and Greg buttoned up his cuff. "We found Rachel."

Sherlock, who had been watching the activity in the kitchen, spun around to face him again. "Who is she?"

Greg put his hands back on his hips and stared at Sherlock. "Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

"Her daughter?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed in thought. "Why would she write her daughter's name, why?"

"Never mind that, we found the case," Anderson interrupted. "According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

Sherlock whipped his head around and shot Anderson a dark look. "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." He dismissed Anderson from his thoughts and turned back to Greg. "You need to bring Rachel in and you need to question her, I need to question her."

Greg tilted his chin up, preparing himself for the storm of deductions and rhetorical questions that were about to be aimed at him. "She's dead."

Sherlock did not disappoint Greg's expectations. "Excellent. How, when and why?" Sherlock was speaking so fast that only Greg's knowledge of Sherlock allowed his brain to translate the words into something resembling English. "Is there a connection? There has to be."

Greg cut in when Sherlock paused. "I doubt it," he said more slowly than normal in an unconscious effort to balance out Sherlock's rapid-fire speech. "Since she's been dead for 14 years. Technically, she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter 14 years ago." He nearly laughed at the befuddled expression that Sherlock now wore. John sighed in the background and bit his lip in thought.

Sherlock gazed around the room his eyes seeing nothing of it. "That's not right. How…why would she do that? Why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?" Anderson drawled sarcastically. "Yeah, sociopath, I'm seeing it now." John sent a heated glare his way but remained quiet. If he opened his mouth Anderson was liable to end up on the floor bleeding again. John had beaten the crap out of him once and shot up shoulder and dodgy leg or not he could and would do it again if he needed to.

"She didn't think about her daughter," Sherlock explained calmly. "She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails," his tone became more biting the longer he spoke. "She was dying. It took effort, it would have hurt." Sherlock turned away from him, walked past Greg and stared out the window, thinking.

John could tell Anderson was gearing up for what he thought would be a sharp, witty retort and didn't really feel like dealing with it when they had a serial killer to catch. "You said the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it." Sherlock turned from the window and started pacing again; listening to John intently thought only John and Greg could tell that he even heard his husband. "Well, maybe he, I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

Sherlock tugged on his hair in impatience. "Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?" Silence fell in the room suddenly as everyone stared at Sherlock. John shook his head and fixed his husband with disappointed eyes. Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Not good?" He asked quietly.

"Bit not good, yeah." John answered him just as quietly.

Sherlock didn't understand why the comment wasn't good and so made a mental note to ask John after they finished the case. Filing the question away inside his Mind Palace he strode closer to John and leaned in towards him. "Yeah, but if you were dying, if you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

John licked his lips at the sudden onslaught of memories of fire and pain and fear. "Please God, let me live." He said almost too quietly to be heard.

"Oh, use your imagination," Sherlock exploded scornfully.

"Sherlock!" Greg yelled in a scolding tone even as John stiffened into his soldier's stance.

"I don't have to," John told him.

Sherlock froze for a moment as though he'd just remembered who he was talking to. His eyes telegraphed an apology and John's sent forgiveness. John's posture relaxed.

"But if you'd been poisoned instead of shot," Sherlock was off on his hypothetical situation again. "And if you were clever like her…Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers, she was clever." John ignored the stab of hurt that comment caused and pursed his lips while he thought. "She's trying to tell us something."

The police mostly shook their heads at him and went back to what they'd been doing. Greg and John watched for a moment as Sherlock paced the room.

"Isn't the doorbell working?" Mrs. Hudson asked from the door to the flat. "You're taxi's here, Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked over at her and then waved his hand to shoo her away. "I didn't order a taxi. Go away!"

"Oh, dear, they're making such a mess!" Mrs. Hudson's voice was dismayed. "What are they looking for?"

"Evidence that Sherlock—" John started to tell her.

"It's a drugs bust," Anderson sneered. Maybe the little old lady would evict the Freak now. John gave him a hard look and Mrs. Hudson gasped.

"But they're just for my hip," she said to John, frightened. "They're herbal soothers."

"Shut up!" Sherlock suddenly yelled. "Everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

"What?" Anderson scoffed. "My face is?"

Greg's lips twitched. "Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Anderson whined.

"Your back," Greg yelled. "Now, please!"

Sherlock was pacing again and John sat down in his chair out of the way, his face lined in thought. "Come on, think, quick!" Sherlock said to himself.

"What about your taxi?" Mrs. Hudson persisted.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock yelled. The woman gave him a hurt look and sped away down the stairs.

"Sherlock," John and Greg both admonished but the younger man wasn't listening.

Sherlock froze in the middle of the room. "Oh! Ah…" he grinned. "She was clever, clever, yes. She's cleverer than you lot, and she's dead." He encompassed everyone in the room with a wave. "Do you see, do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him." John smiled as realization struck. Greg stood back with his arms crossed over his chest and watched as Sherlock's brain made connections and deductions at the speed of light. "When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer."

"But how?" Greg asked.

Sherlock nearly stumbled as he stopped to stare at Greg in confusion. "What…what do you mean how?"

Greg shrugged. "Uh…"

"Rachel!" Sherlock cried. Behind Greg, John was already reaching for the pink case. "Don't you see? Rachel!" John read the tag on the case and then sat back and waited for Sherlock to finish ranting. Everyone else simply gave Sherlock blank looks. He started chuckling. "Oh. Look at you lot; you're all so vacant." John raised an eyebrow at his husband that Sherlock either didn't see or just ignored. "Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing." Now John pursed his lips and glared at him, but he was ignored again. "Rachel is not a name." John nodded. He'd figured that much out for himself. He took a quick look around at the staring, confused police and sighed.

"Then what is it?" John asked loudly with a hard edge to his tone that had Sherlock staring at him in bewilderment.

He recovered his composure quickly though. "John, on the luggage, there's a label." He turned to flip open the laptop on the table as he spoke. "E-mail address." He sat down at the table and pulled the laptop towards him.

John didn't move from his chair. Sherlock glared at him over his shoulder. " .uk." John told him without looking at the case.

"How?"

"I knew what you were going to ask two minutes ago, Sherlock. You were too busy ranting and showing off to notice." John said a bit petulantly. "I'm not quite the idiot you're making me out to be."

Sherlock frowned and turned back to the laptop, typing in the address. "I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smart phone that's e-mail enabled, so there was a website for her account. The user name is her e-mail address and—all together now—the password is?"

"Rachel," John said quietly and stood behind Sherlock to look over his shoulder.

"So we can read her e-mail?" Anderson asked snidely. "So what?"

"God, Anderson," Sally shook her head at his stupidity. "It's a smart phone!"

Sherlock nodded to her. "Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the IQ of the whole street. We can do much more than just read her e-mails. Like Donovan pointed out, it's a smart phone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it, you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her." He pushed the button to locate the phone and watched the page load impatiently.

"Unless he got rid of it," Greg muttered.

"We know he didn't," John looked over his shoulder.

"How?" Greg bit out. John flushed at his unthinking comment and didn't answer.

"Come on, come on, quickly!" Sherlock urged the computer.

Mrs. Hudson walked into the room at a frantic pace. "Sherlock, dear," she said breathlessly. "This taxi driver…"

Sherlock leapt from the chair and spun around to walk towards her. "Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your evening soother?" He turned away from her to talk to Greg. "Get vehicles, get a helicopter. We're going to have to move fast. This phone battery won't last forever."

Mrs. Hudson continued to stand in the doorway with her fingers over her lips. There was something about that cab driver that made her uncomfortable and Sherlock wasn't listening to her. That wasn't much of a surprise, really. Sherlock only ever listened to John. She started a little when footsteps sound on the stairs behind her.

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name." Greg was telling Sherlock.

"It's a start," Sherlock insisted.

"Sherlock?" John had sat down at the table to keep watch on the GPS locator and called out when it beeped.

Sherlock turned his head but carried on speaking to Greg. "Narrows it down from just anyone in London. It's the first proper lead that we've had."

"Sherlock?" John called again, more insistently.

Sherlock sped to his side. "Where is it, quickly, where?"

John was staring intently at the screen, confusion suffusing his expression. "It's…here. It's in 221B Baker Street."

Sherlock stared at the wall in shock, his mind racing with possibilities and questions. "How can it be here?" His brow furrowed. "How?"

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back," Greg offered. "And it fell out somewhere."

"What, and I didn't notice it? Me?" Sherlock sneered. "I didn't notice," Sherlock's voice was suddenly quiet and he seemed to have gotten lost in his own head.

"Anyway, we texted him and he called back," John told Greg while keeping a concerned eye on his husband.

"You what?" Greg hissed. "Guys, we're also looking for a mobile phone somewhere here, belongs to the victim." He knew they wouldn't find it but it would give his men something to do while he ripped John a new one for endangering himself and Sherlock. He turned back to John. "Why, in God's name, would you text a murderer?"

John shrugged. "Ask Sherlock," he instructed. "I didn't even know who he had me texting until I'd already sent it. And may I point out that you text me all the time."

"Being a soldier is different from being a murderer, Dr. John," Sally corrected him.

John grinned. "Oh, I know, I just love the look on Greg's face when I say things like that."

Sally giggled and Greg threw his hands up in frustration. "Gah! You're both as bad as the other!"

Something about the way Sherlock was standing caught John's attention just then. "Sherlock, you okay?" Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room staring at his phone.

"What?" Sherlock asked distractedly. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."

John wasn't sure he believed him but he got them all back on track anyway. There would be time to make sure Sherlock was all right later. "So how can the phone be here?"

"Don't know," Sherlock answered in the same absent tone.

"I'll try it again," John offered. "Maybe it was a glitch or something."

"Good idea," Sherlock told him. He headed out the door.

"Where are you going?" John asked him and pulled out his phone.

"Fresh air. Just popping out for a moment. Won't be long."

"You sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock shouted back as he sped down the stairs.

John frowned and set his phone by the laptop in case Sherlock texted him. He restarted the GPS search and waited impatiently for it to load.

**A/N: That button that says some form of R-E-V-I-E-W? I have been reliably informed that after you push the button you need to type out your thoughts on the story. I don't care if they're good or bad I just wish you would. Though, be forwarned: if you flame me, s'mores are my kid's favorite food and my own BAMF is rather protective of me.**


	10. Hope

**Disclaimer: Yep, I'm still ranting about Mt. Olympus not being in New York City. And Lestrade still hasn't become my blankie. I haven't found Eros yet. Sherlock and company are not mine and at this rate they never will be…I refuse to give up hope though so I'll keep writing these stories even though I don't make any money from them.**

**A/N: Chapter two of the Sunday Blitz which is what I've decided to call the Sundays when I can upload more than one chapter. Enjoy it and let me know what you think.**

**Hope**

Sherlock opened the door to the street while shrugging into his coat. A cab sat next to the curb and the driver leaned against it. Sherlock knew that this unassuming, ordinary looking man was the serial killer they'd been chasing. This was the man that had texted him to come with him. He wasn't afraid. John had said he was going to start the GPS search again. It wouldn't take his husband more than a few minutes to figure out what was going on and then his soldier would be in a fine fury. He would chase them down and retrieve Sherlock if it was the last thing he ever did. There was something vastly comforting in that thought.

"Taxi for Sherlock Holmes," the fiftyish cabbie said.

Sherlock shut the door to 221 Baker Street and smirked at the cabbie. "I didn't order a taxi," he stated.

"Doesn't mean you don't need one," the cabbie said.

"You're the cabbie…the one who stopped outside North Umberland Street." Damn! Sherlock thought. John's idea of memorizing the cab number had been a good one and he should have followed up on it. He'd have to tell John he'd been right when John rescued him. "It was you, not your passenger."

"See, no one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible, just the back of an head." He didn't sound upset by this. More amused and indulgent than anything else, really. "Proper advantage for a serial killer."

_Save the Cheerios,_ John's voice sounded inappropriately in his mind. Though it was something John would say. He never allowed anyone to intimidate him. And this stupid man with his poison would only irritate John into silly comments designed to confuse the enemy, but Sherlock still didn't say the words. Taunting killers with random statements was John's job.

He took a few steps away from the building toward the taxi. "Is this a confession?" He looked up towards the window to the flat wondering if John was watching.

"Oh, yeah," the cabbie said cheerfully. "And I'll tell you what else. If you call the coppers now, I won't run." That statement got Sherlock's full attention centered back on the cabbie. "I'll sit quiet and they can take me down, I promise."

"Why?"

"Because you're not going to do that," the smug tone irritated Sherlock.

"Am I not?"

"I didn't kill those four people, Mr. Holmes. I spoke to them, and they killed themselves." John had been right again. "If you get the coppers now, I promise you one thing." _One more thing, you mean._ "I will never tell you what I said." The cabbie looked at him for a moment and then pushed off the side of the car and walked around it to the driver's door.

"No one else will die, though, and I believe they call that a result." Sherlock wasn't sure he wanted to know what the cabbie had said to those people but his curiosity was one of his biggest failings. He knew that if he got in that taxi John was going to do him bodily harm but he couldn't stop wondering.

"You won't ever understand how those people died." _Why, not how. I know they ingested poison, you idiot._ "What kind of result do you care about?" _The one that doesn't lead to my husband yelling at me._

The cabbie entered the car and waited for him to make a choice. Sherlock bit at his lower lip, glanced up at the window to the flat again and then leaned down beside the taxi. Maybe there was still a way to convince the cabbie to give him the information he wanted and still avoided getting in trouble with John, Lestrade, Donovan and probably Mycroft as well. "If I wanted to understand, what would I do?"

"Let me take you for a ride." The cabbie said simply.

"So you can kill me, too?" Sherlock snorted.

"I don't want to kill you, Mr. Holmes," the cabbie sounded offended by the very thought. "I'm going to talk to you…and then you're going to kill yourself." Sherlock mentally rolled his eyes. There was nothing this man could say to or about him or anyone he knew that would convince Sherlock to take his own life. It wasn't as though John or another of his loved ones was in danger from this man and they could only be saved if Sherlock killed himself.

Sherlock straightened and stole another glance at the window. John was standing near it and looking down on him. Sherlock nodded at him and sighing for the scoldings he would receive later he stepped into the taxi. He studied the license on the dash. Jefferson Hope.

The cab started and Hope drove them away from Baker Street.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John watched his husband enter the cab and hit the send button on his phone before holding it up to his ear and listening to it ring. He watched as the taxi pulled away from the curb and took off down the street. "He just got into a cab," he said aloud. He turned around and took a few steps towards Greg. "It's…Sherlock. He just drove off in a cab."

"I told you, he does that," Sally frowned and rounded on Greg. "He bloody left again." She turned away and strode into the kitchen. "We're wasting our time." She shot a look at John. "You better yell at him for me when he gets back, Dr. John or I swear I'm going to slap him for running off again. How are we supposed to do our jobs properly when he keeps information from us and runs off without telling us where he's going?"

John gave Sally an apologetic look. "I'm calling the phone. It's ringing out." He sighed and shrugged. "He's not answering."

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Hope and Sherlock both ignored the incessantly ringing pink phone. Sherlock knew that it was most likely John. He also knew that it meant John had figured out who the killer was and would soon be on his way. He held back the smirk that was creeping up. He could always count on John to ride to his rescue. Seriously, John had been born in the wrong century. The man should have been a knight of old.

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"Well, if it's ringing, it's not here," Greg said. John scowled at him. They'd told him that already.

"I'll try the search again," John offered and headed for the table and laptop.

Sally approached and stood next to Greg glaring into the distance. "Damn that man!" She cursed. "What is he doing? We're wasting our time here. Dr. John, do you have any idea where he went or why?"

John shrugged. "He probably figured something out and went to investigate. What he figured out or where he went I haven't the foggiest."

Greg sighed. If John didn't know where Sherlock had gone then there was no hope that any of the rest of them would. "Okay, everybody, we're done here." He called to the officers.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"How did you find me?" Sherlock asked Hope.

"Oh, I recognized you," Hope grinned in the rearview mirror. "As soon as I saw you chasing my cab—Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock turned in his seat to see if John was following them yet. "I was warned about you. I've been on your website, too; brilliant stuff, loved it."

"Who warned you about me?"

"Someone out there who's noticed you."

"Who?" Sherlock leaned forward and concentrated intently on Hope. "Who would notice me?"

"You're too modest, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm really not." John called him arrogant all the time and a show off.

"Got yourself a fan." The last word was whispered mockingly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and settled into the corner of the seat so that he could keep an eye behind them to watch for John. "Tell me more."

"That's all you're going to know…in this lifetime." _Please, is that supposed to be a frightening comment? I don't find it so._

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"Why did he do that?" Greg asked. "Why did he have to leave?" He pulled his coat on as he spoke.

"Because he's Sherlock Bloody Holmes," John groused.

Greg gave a faint smirk. "True."

"Why do we put up with him, Greg?"

"Well, you do, because you are insane and in love with him. I put up with him because I'm desperate." He paused for a moment and then smiled. "And Sherlock Holmes is a great man on his way to becoming a very good one."

"That is very true," John sighed.

Greg followed the rest of his team out the door and left John alone in the silent flat.

**A/N: Review? Please? I'm begging. Can't have Lestrade so I'll take reviews.**


	11. The College

**Disclaimer: Nothing's changed from five minutes ago again. Still not mine and I'm still poor.**

**A/N: Third chapter of the Sunday Blitz. You all know the spiel by now. Though for a warning Sherlock does get a bit violent in the end of this just like he does in the show.**

**The College**

Hope pulled to a stop in front of a large building, turned the ignition off and stepped out of the taxi. He opened the back door and gazed in at Sherlock. "Where are we?" Sherlock asked.

"You know every street in London," Hope retorted. "You know exactly where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?"

Hope blinked and gestured with his head to the doors. "It's open. The cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie, you always know a nice, quiet spot for a murder. I'm surprised more of us don't branch out."

"And you just walk you victims in? How?" Hope lifted his hand and pointed a gun right between Sherlock's eyes. His hand shook a bit but was steady enough not to miss. "Oh, dull," Sherlock was disappointed. How very mundane and boring.

"Don't worry, it gets better."

Sherlock scowled at this lack of ingenuity. "You can't force people to take their own lives at gunpoint."

"I don't." Hope's voice was mild and the gun didn't waver. "It's much better than that." Hope withdrew the gun and tucked it into the back of his pants. "Don't need this with you, 'cause you'll follow me." Hope left and wandered away towards the college's entrance.

Sherlock frowned. "Dammit!" He cursed under his breath. Hope was right. Though he fully believed John would find him he had to stay with Hope so they could catch him and he did want to know what it was that Hope could possibly say that would force someone to take their own lives. He slid angrily across the seat and followed Hope into the building.

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John straightened a few things in the flat as he waited for the locator to connect. He was going to have to ask Greg to tell his men to be more careful next time. They really had made a right mess of things.

The computer beeped as he picked up his cane from where someone had tossed it to the floor. He rushed over to the computer and stared in shock at the screen. Then he flipped it shut and raced out the door knowing why Sherlock had left. He was going to make Sherlock sleep in the upstairs room for the next week if he was right, just as soon as he rescued his husband from the clutches of a serial killer posing as a taxi driver.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Hope pushed open the left hand door with a circular window to a dark classroom. Sherlock followed him in and waited as he turned on the lights. "Well, what do you think?" Hope asked. _It looks like a classroom, you idiot,_ John's voice said and Sherlock barely resisted the urge to say the words this time. "It's up to you. You're the one who's going to die here." _Am not,_ his inner John stuck its tongue out at Hope.

"No, I'm not," Sherlock shook his head and decided not to stick his tongue out. Sometimes John was so childish.

"That's what they all say. Shall we talk?" He moved closer to one of the tables, pulled out a chair and sat down. Sherlock followed and sat across from him.

"Bit risky, wasn't it? Took me away under the eye of about a half dozen policemen," _and my husband, an army doctor. _"They're not that stupid." _Well, Anderson is but the rest aren't. _"And Mrs. Hudson will remember you." _And be able to describe you in detail to Lestrade if I turn up dead. Though, if you kill me, Lestrade will be the least of your worries._

"You call that a risk?" _Yes, my husband is _Dr. John Watson_, after all. You wouldn't know that means George Cross medal holder, numerous awards for marksmanship, numerous awards for hand to hand combat and many other interesting things that you didn't bother to find out. Yes, I call coming after me a risk to everyone that tries it._ "Nah. _This_ is a risk," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pill vial. There was one pill resting in the bottom. Sherlock studied the bottle from across the table. "Oh, I like this bit; because you don't get it yet, do you?" Sherlock shifted his gaze to Hope. "But you're about to. I just have to do this." He reached into his other pocket and pulled out an identical bottle with an identical pill. "Weren't expecting that, were you? Oh, you're going to love this."

"Love what?"

"Sherlock Holmes, look at you. Here in the flesh. That website of yours, your fan told me about it."

"My fan?" Sherlock questioned again.

"You are brilliant. You are a proper genius. 'The Science of Deduction'—now, that is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting here, why can't people think?" _Because they're idiots. _"Doesn't it make you mad?" _Not usually. Only Anderson and sometimes others but normally I'm just glad that I'm not them. Besides the most important people in my world can think and do…usually._ "Why can't people just think?" _Stop repeating yourself, it proves that you're an idiot._

Then Sherlock saw it. "Oh, I see. So you're a proper genius, too."

"Don't look it, do I?" _No, but then neither does John._ "Funny little man driving a cab." His voice had become bitter now. "But you'll now better in a minute. Chances are it'll be the last thing you ever know." _Except it won't be. John will come. _

Sherlock was growing bored now. He'd learned nearly everything he needed to know about the serial killer cabbie. If it weren't for the mysterious fan he'd have walked out already. "Okay, two bottles. Explain."

"There's a good bottle and a bad bottle," Hope told him. "You take the pill from the good bottle, you live. Take the pill from the bad bottle, you die."

"The bottles are of course identical."

"In every way." _Except one contains poison and the other doesn't…unless they both contain a poison that you are immune too, but that really only happens in movies._

"And do you know which is which?"

"Of course I know," Hope said smugly.

"But I don't."

"Wouldn't be a game if you knew. You're the one who chooses."

"Why should I?" Sherlock gave him his own smug look. He had no reason to choose one of those pills and swallow it. "I've got nothing to go on. What's in it for me?"

"I haven't told you the best bit yet. Whatever bottle you choose, I take the pill from the other one." _Knew it!_ Sherlock kept his face impassive even has he grinned in his head. "And then together, we take our medicine." Sherlock couldn't stop his lips from twitching. "I won't cheat. It's your choice. I'll take whatever pill you don't. Didn't expect that, did you, Mr. Holmes?" _Yes, actually, as soon as I saw the second bottle. _

"This is what you did to the rest of them?" Sherlock asked for confirmation. "You gave them a choice?"

"And now I'm giving you one. Take your time," Hope urged, rocking in his chair. "Get yourself together. I want your best game."

_Where the Hell is John?_ "It's not a game, it's chance," Sherlock sneered.

"I've played four times. I'm alive. It's not chance, Mr. Holmes, it's chess. It's a game of chess. With one move and one survivor. And this, this is the move." Hope slid the first bottle towards Sherlock. "Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? You can choose either one."

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"No," John's voice rang with frustration. He should have just called Greg's personal mobile phone. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need to speak to him. It's important!" John almost hang up then to call Greg's mobile but decided to be patient. So long as they got Greg before John lost Sherlock then it would be fine. The laptop on his lap pinged again and again as the GPS locator searched for the signal from Jennifer Wilson's pink phone. "It's an emergency." The map screen came up. "Left here, please, left here," John instructed the cab driver.

The cabbie followed his instructions wordlessly. John prayed he got to Sherlock in time to stop him doing something stupid.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Hope and Sherlock stared across the table at each other. "You ready yet, Mr. Holmes?" Hope finally asked. "Ready to play?"

"Play what? It's a 50-50 chance."

"You're not playing the numbers, you're playing me," Hope said sharply. The two glared at each other. "Did I give you the good pill or the bad pill?" He asked insistently. "Is it a bluff, or a double bluff, or a triple bluff?"

"It's still just chance," Sherlock argued.

"Four people in a row? It's not chance."

"Luck," Sherlock sneered.

"It's genius," Hope spat back. He visibly calmed himself. "I know how people think. I know how people think _I_ think." Sherlock drew a deep breath. This had to be the most boring conversation, barring any with Anderson, ever. "I can see it all like a map inside my head. Everyone's so stupid, even you." Sherlock nearly scowled, only John was allowed to call him stupid. "Or maybe God just loves me."

Sherlock leaned forward, folding his fingers together and leaning on his forearms. "Either way, you are wasted as a cabbie."

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John stood in front of the twin buildings of the Roland-Kerr Further Education College and behind the cab with the license plate reading 0V04PYG. He should have known that cab was trouble. He looked back and forth between the buildings, trying to decide which one held his husband. Praying he was right he sped off through one set of doors and down the halls looking for Sherlock and the serial killer cabbie.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

Sherlock brought his folded hands up and leaned on his elbows. "So…You risked your life four times just to kill strangers. Why?"

"Time to play." Hope nodded at the bottles on the table.

Sherlock steepled his fingers in front of his mouth. "Oh, I am playing. This is my turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. There are traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own. There's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children and the children's mother's been cut out of the picture." He had to keep stalling until John finally showed up. "If she'd died, she'd still be there. The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children, you don't get to see them. Estranged father." Hope frowned and there was a bit of shininess to his eyes now. "She took the kids, but you still love them, and it still hurts." Sherlock took a breath.

"Ah!" He said when Hope opened his mouth. "But there's more. Your clothes, recently laundered, but everything you're wearing is at least three years old. Keeping up appearances, but not planning ahead. And here you are on a kamikaze murder spree. What's that about?" Sherlock grinned, inviting Hope to share the joke with him. Hope only stared at him, expressionless. Sherlock face brightened in understanding. "Ah. Three years ago. Is that when they told you?"

"Told me what?" Hope tried to regain control of the situation.

"That you're a dead man walking," Sherlock intoned harshly.

"So are you."

"You don't have long though. Am I right?"

Hope smiled suddenly. "Aneurism, right in here." He pointed to a spot above and in front of his right ear. "Any breath could be my last."

"And because you're dying, you've just murdered four people."

"I've outlived four people." Hope corrected. "That's the most fun you can have with an aneurism."

Sherlock looked out the windows for a moment. "No. No, there's something else. You didn't just kill four people because you're bitter. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator." _As you'll find out personally when John finally arrives. _"Somehow, this is about your children."

"Oh." Hope breathed out. "You are good, aren't you?"

"But how?" Sherlock asked, almost to himself.

"When I die, they won't get much, my kids," Hope explained. "Not a lot of money; I'm driving cabs."

"Or a serial killer," Sherlock threw out.

"You'd be surprised," Hope chuckled.

"Surprise me," Sherlock commanded.

Hope leaned forward as though sharing a secret. "I have a sponsor."

"You have a what?" Sherlock questioned, shocked.

"For every life I take, money goes to my kids. More I kill, the better off they'll be. You see? Nicer than you think."

"Who'd sponsor a serial killer?"

"Who'd be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You're not the only one to enjoy a good murder. There's others out there, just like you." _I seriously doubt that._ "Except you're just a man. And they're so much more than that."

"What do you mean, more than a man? An organization? What?"

"There's a name no one says," Hope was smiling smugly. "And I'm not going to say it, either. Now, enough chatter." He glanced down at the bottles. "Time to choose."

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"Sherlock!" John yelled as he raced through empty corridors. He tried every door only to find them all locked. "Where is he?" He muttered under his breath. "Sherlock!" He yelled again hoping for some kind of response. There was none.

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"What if I don't choose either?" Sherlock asked. "I could just walk out of here."

Hope sighed and pulled the gun out again, pointing it at Sherlock's head. "You can take a 50-50 chance, or I can shoot you in the head." Sherlock smirked again, his blue eyes steady and unafraid. "Funny enough, no one's ever gone for that option."

"I'll have the gun please," Sherlock's eyes never wavered from Hope's.

"Are you sure?"

"Definitely. The gun."

"You don't want to phone a friend?" _I'd love to call John, but I don't think you'd let me and it'll just distract him anyway._

"The gun." Hope pulled the trigger and a small flame popped out of the end of the gun. "I know a real gun when I see one."

"None of the others did," Hope commented as he let the flame go out.

"None of the others was married to an army doctor who owns one, now were they?" Hope filed that information away to inform his sponsor. He'd be very interested. "Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case." Sherlock pushed himself up and strode towards the door.

Hope set the lighter down on the table and followed him with his eyes. "Just before you go, did you figure it out?" Sherlock stopped with his hand on the door. "Which one's the good bottle?"

"Of course," Sherlock sneered. "Child's play." He half turned back to Hope.

"Well, which one, then?" Sherlock cracked open the door. "Which one would you have picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you?" Sherlock shut the door with a loud clack. "Come on, play the game," Hope urged, chuckling.

Sherlock stood staring for a moment. John was going to kill him. He walked slowly back to the table and grabbed the bottle in front of Hope. Hope stared down at the blank spot for a moment.

"Oh, interesting," he said in an amused voice.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John ran down more corridors on the second floor of the building. "Sherlock!"

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Hope opened the bottle and dropped the pill into his hand. Turning it over and over between his fingers. Sherlock studied his own bottle. "So, what do you think? Shall we?"

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John finally found and unlocked door and poked his head inside. No Sherlock. "Sherlock!" He yelled again, becoming desperate. Had he chosen the wrong building?

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"Really, what do you think?" Hope taunted. "Can you beat me? Clever enough to bet your life?" He waved the pill in his hand around with a grin.

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

John burst through a door and stared at the scene before him. He had chosen the wrong building. Sherlock was across the way from him with his back to the windows. The cabbie was grinning at him and holding up a pill. "Sherlock!" He screamed as loud as he could. Neither of the other men gave any indication of having heard him. "Sherlock!"

SH/JW SH/JW SH/JW

"I bet you get bored, don't you?" Hope asked. "I know you do." Sherlock stared at him steadily his fingers turning the bottle in his hands. "Man like you, so clever." _Really his praise doesn't have nearly the same effect as John's does. _Sherlock opened the bottle and dumped the small pill into his hand. "But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?" Sherlock held the pill up to the light to see it better. "Still the addict," Hope taunted him. "But this, this is what you're really addicted to." _No, that would be John. I'm addicted to my husband and he's going to be very angry with the both of us. _"You'll do anything, anything at all, to stop being bored." Sherlock's hand trembled a little as the pill slowly crept closer to his mouth. _Anytime now, John. Anytime. Hurry up! _"Not bored now, are you?"

There was a loud bang. Hope crumpled to the floor. Sherlock dropped the pill in surprise. "Finally!" Sherlock exploded. "Took you long enough!" He ran to the window and looked through the hole and across the courtyard. John wasn't there anymore. Clever of him.

He turned back around and went to the man gasping and wheezing on the floor with a bullet hole through his chest. Sherlock picked up one of the pills. "Was I right?" He asked desperately. "I was, wasn't I?" Hope gave a weak smile and looked away. "Did I get it right?" Sherlock asked insistently. Hope made no answer and Sherlock threw the pill at him. He stood by Hope's head. "Okay, tell me this. Your sponsor—who was it? The one who told you about me, my _fan_? I want a name."

"No," Hope groaned.

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you," Sherlock wasn't usually a violent person, not intentionally. But desperate times and all that and John wasn't here to do it for him. "Give me a name."

Hope shook his head. Sherlock placed his foot heavily on Hope's wound. Hope groaned in pain.

"A name!" Sherlock yelled. "Now!" He pressed down harder on the wound. "The name!"

"Moriarty!" Hope finally screamed. He drew one last breath and passed out.

Sherlock backed away a little appalled at what he'd just done and a bit sick to his stomach. He looked around. He needed John. The name meant absolutely nothing to him. He needed John.

**A/N: Look down there. What does that little button do? Push it and find out. I dare you. Then tell me if you pushed it. Please?**


	12. Aftermath

**Disclaimer: Yeah, still the same day and none of them are mine and I'm poor as a church mouse…sorta. I do have a job.**

**A/N: So last chapter of the Blitz and the story. This was very fun to write and I'm glad you all enjoyed it. See you next week. Please review. Putting at the top this time just because. So hit the review button when you're finished and at least tell me what I screwed up or if you don't think I screwed up (I'd actually prefer that but I'll take what I can get).**

**Aftermath**

A paramedic put an orange shock blanket around Sherlock's shoulders as he sat in the door of the ambulance. Sherlock looked down at it in confusion. Where was John? Lestrade ducked under the tape and approached him. "Why have I got this blanket?" Sherlock asked when he spotted him. "They keep putting this blanket on me."

Greg assessed him for a moment before replying. "Yeah, well, it's for shock."

"I'm not in shock," Sherlock protested.

Greg smiled. Sherlock was going to be just fine. "Yeah," he agreed. "But some of the guys want to take photographs and John will be less likely to tear strips off of you if you're wearing that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and clutched the blanket a bit tighter around himself. "Where is John?" He asked plaintively.

"I hope he's washing his hands," Greg said quietly. "There's no evidence that it was him that shot Hope but we both know it was."

Sherlock nodded. "Good." He looked around for a moment and finally spotted his husband standing calmly next to the barrier with Sgt. Donovan. "There he is. Good night, Lestrade. I'll give you my statement tomorrow." He leapt off the back of the ambulance and strode away.

"Yeah, fine." Greg grumbled. "John! Make sure you bring him round tomorrow for his statement."

John waved and gave him a thumb's up sign. Sherlock scowled but joined his husband at the police tape cordoning off the scene. "Thanks for the head's up, Sgt. Sally," John said as Sherlock approached.

Sally grinned. "Like you really needed it, Dr. John," she snickered and rounded on Sherlock. "Don't ever do that again, Freak! Dr. John won't always be around to save your arse!"

"I know that, Donovan, thank you." Sherlock grimaced.

Sally turned back to John and patted his arm. "Good night, Dr. John," she said. "Night Freak."

"Good night, Sgt. Sally," John smiled. They watched her join Greg and then wandered down the street.

"Good shot," Sherlock complimented him as they walked.

"Yes, it was, wasn't it?" John smiled.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked and pulled John's hand into his.

John gave him a strange look. "Yes, of course I'm all right."

"Well, you have just killed a man."

John considered for a moment. "Yeah." He swallowed. "That's true." He gave an unconscious grin. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

Sherlock smiled back. "No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"He was, frankly, a bloody awful cabbie." John turned sparkling hazel eyes to meet Sherlock's blue ones. They both chuckled a bit.

"That's true. He was a bad cabbie. You should've seen the route he took us to get here."

John giggled. "Stop—we can't giggle, it's a crime scene."

"You're the one who shot him, don't blame me."

"Sherlock, keep your voice down," John admonished as one of the milling officers gave them a sharp look. "Sorry," he told the officer. "It's just nerves, I think."

Sherlock echoed his apology half-heartedly.

John tugged on his hand to get his attention but didn't untangle their fingers. "You were going to take that damn pill, weren't you?"

"Course I wasn't," Sherlock assured him. "I was biding my time. I knew you'd turn up. You always do."

John couldn't deny that. "Sometimes, Sherlock, you're a colossal idiot. What if I'd been stuck in traffic or the laptop had crashed or any of another million unforeseen circumstances."

Sherlock shrugged. "You've never let me down before, why would you start now?" John squeezed his hand, his anger fading. "Dinner?" Sherlock offered.

"Starving, you didn't let me finish at Angelo's."

"There's a good Chinese at the end of Baker Street, stays open until 2. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle."

"Good evening, Mycroft," John said as they passed the black car he was stepping out of.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock spat out.

"Checking on you," Mycroft told them lightly. "You did just get kidnapped by a serial killer, brother. Though you did solve the case in the end, didn't you?"

Sherlock made an agreeing sound. "I must have missed your snipers on the roof."

Mycroft smiled. "Why would you need mine when you have one of your own? Excellent shot, by the way, John."

John smiled back. "You paid for my lessons, before the army took over, anyway."

"Money well spent, obviously." Sherlock said. "Now, why are you really here, Mycroft?"

"I can't be concerned about my brother and his husband?" Mycroft affected a wounded look. "Because I am, constantly."

"That's because you're the oldest and it's your job to worry about us, constantly," John grinned. "Or that's what you told me when I was sixteen."

"And it still holds true to today," Mycroft confirmed.

Sherlock stood behind John and wrapped his arms around his waist while leaning his chin on the top of John's head. "That's not the only reason you're here, though, is it?"

Mycroft sighed a bit. "So untrusting," he shook his head. "Where did we go wrong?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock growled. "I'm tired, hungry and horny; just spit it out already so that we can go home."

Mycroft shared a commiserating look with John before holding his hand back down into the car door. "Yes, there is another reason I came here tonight," he confirmed. "Be nice," he warned them. A feminine hand gripped his and Mycroft pulled a woman wearing a pale lavender evening gown from the back of the car. She kissed his cheek and then turned to face John and Sherlock.

Sherlock's arms dropped from John's waist and his mouth dropped open in shock. "Molly?" Sherlock and John said together.

"Hello Sherlock, John," she nodded at them a bit uncomfortably.

Mycroft took her right hand in his left. "Sherlock, John, allow me to introduce you to Mrs. Molly Holmes."

"Mrs.?" Sherlock breathed in confusion. He shook his head. "How did I not see that? How did you hide it, Molly? Does Mummy know? Why? When?"

John ignored his spluttering husband and embraced Molly. "Welcome to the family, Molly," he told her. "We're a bit insane but you already knew that."

"Mummy knows, Sherlock. She planned our elopement nearly five months ago. And we married for the normal reasons people marry. I love her"

Molly smiled. "We've something else to tell you," she said hesitantly.

Sherlock waved that off for the moment and pushed John away so that he could hug her too. "Really well done, Molly. I'd begun to fear that Mycroft would ever find someone."

Molly smiled wider, a little teary eyed. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"Now what's the news?" Sherlock demanded knowingly.

"You've already deduced it, haven't you?" Mycroft sighed.

"Yes, but I have read that it's something that needs to be said allowed for the health of all involved. People, especially in your situation, tend to get snippy when someone steals their thunder."

"You're going to be uncles in about seven months," Molly said blushing.

Sherlock hugged her again. "Excellent!"

"Brilliant," John echoed and hugged Mycroft as Sherlock was still hogging Molly to himself. "Congratulations, Mycroft."

They spoke for a few more minutes about the plans for Sunday dinner and then Mycroft dragged Molly back into the car and drove away. John and Sherlock watched the taillights disappear with satisfied grins. "So, tired, hungry and horny," John commented. "I believe I can alleviate all three."

Sherlock grasped his hand again. "You most certainly can."


End file.
